Pills and Needles

Photo from today.com

This pregnancy announcement from a set of parents struggling with infertility has been making the rounds on social media over the last few days, and it has totally struck a nerve.  The last time I wrote, I shared the news of my non pregnancy, my positive pregnancy test that would never progress beyond that.  The outpouring of love I received from that post was incredible.  Texts, cards in the mail, messages on Facebook, from people who I speak to everyday and who I haven't seen since high school or college.  I can't begin to voice my gratitude for that love, at a time when I desperately needed it.

Since then, people will periodically ask me for an update on how I am doing.  Perhaps between the lines they are asking if we are still trying or even if I am pregnant and just not telling anyone yet.  Oh how I wish that were the case.

It's been 4 long months since that positive pregnancy test.  4 long months of nothing to report.  3 cycles of clomid, with the recent addition of an injection of HCG to trigger ovulation, all with the end result of dozens of negative pregnancy tests.

Just last night, I was walking the dog after work, and a family down the street from us, with a little girl Sabrina's age, walked by.  It was the first time I'd really seen them up close since the cold weather passed, and I realized for the first time that the little girl's mother was very visibly pregnant.  And it felt like somebody punched me in the gut; that should have been me.  I recently went to Muffins with Moms at Sabrina's daycare, and at least half the other mothers in the room had their young babies with them.  We went to a birthday party for Sabrina's friend from school recently, and most of the families with toddlers also had their little babies in tow.  Everyday there is some reminder of my pregnancy that wasn't and isn't.  

I was completely unprepared to deal with this infertility struggle.  I got pregnant with Sabrina the third month I was off the pill, with absolutely no intervention necessary.  Even my non-pregnancy happened immediately, the first month of trying.  But since then it's like my body has shut down.  I now know terms such a follicle size and trigger shot and overstimulation, none of which I was remotely familiar with a few months ago.  I now know what it feels like when your ovaries are so full that they feel like they might burst.  I now know the emotional ups and downs of clomid.  

I am so thankful for my husband throughout this struggle.  He is my rock and my best friend, always there to help out if I am not feeling well or to make me smile when I can't find a reason. It is ironic that he is in his 40s, much later than many men have children, and yet I am the issue here, at the ripe old age of 32.  I am broken, or that's how I feel most days.  Our bodies are designed to do this, yet mine just doesn't seem capable right now.

I know the next steps ahead of me in this fertility struggle, and I am not willing to take them. IUI, IVF, daily injections, sometimes multiple in a day, I am just not willing to go there.  I have been blessed with a daughter, and a stepdaughter, and I am not willing to invest the time, money, and pain of those fertility treatments that will detract from the joyful life I already have.  I just can't do it.  This is where the road ends for me.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for everyone who has supported me, and us, throughout this painful journey.  It is truly in God's hands at this point, and I trust that whatever happens will happen for a reason.  I'm sharing this in the hopes that there can be less of a stigma around infertility.  It's a very private matter, but then again it affects so many around us.  I am someone who heals by sharing, who takes comfort in talking about the good things as well as the bad.  I desperately want to give Sabrina a sibling her own age, so I will stay the course and keep trying, but not forever.  A person can only take so much.

The Pregnancy That Never Was

It was there.  That faint second line.  I was pregnant.  I called my husband in, showed it to him.  We hugged, whispered our excitement.  Blood test confirmed that I was VERY newly pregnant with a repeat test ordered in a week to confirm.  We kept the news to ourselves and quietly and happily counted ahead to a September due date (Chris's birthday month!), Sabrina being a big sister, plans for a gender reveal party, and all the other things that came along with finding out you're expecting.  I of course worked myself up into my usual ball of anxiety over anything resembling change, especially a change this big.  But I was happy.

Then the repeat test came.  I had figured out what my numbers should have been (HCG is supposed to double every 2 days, as all mommies to be quickly learn in their pregnancy journey) and it should have been roughly 150.  It was 40.  Hardly doubled in a week, let alone every 2 days.  My progesterone was almost 0 (3), down from almost 12 the week before.  Something was wrong.  I got my results in a message on my patient portal with the attached note of "We need to see you for an appointment".  Not exactly the way I wanted to find out that there was obviously something very wrong with my pregnancy.

So my husband and I trudged into the office a few LONG hours later.  They asked for any symptoms I'd been having, spotting, one sided pain.  Talked about risks of ectopic pregnancy.  The doctor told me that with the numbers as low as they were, it likely was an egg that was fertilized but never implanted.  This pregnancy of mine never really was.

But to me, it was.  The pink line was there.  The subsequent tests all said pregnant.  I FELT pregnant.  My chest immediately grew twice its size (kinda like the Grinch's heart) and began to really hurt.  I remembered those early signs.  Peeing more.  Being more tired.  Just feeling off, like something was different.  I may not have been pregnant, but my body begged to differ.  

So now I'm in this state of limbo.  My body still thinks it's pregnant.  The tests I take all say pregnant.  But I guess I have to come to terms with the fact that I'm not.  I never really was to begin with, other than a slightly elevated blood result.  The ICD-10 code on my patient plan read "Missed Abortion".  Really?  Is that really the term we want to use when a mother to be has been told that her pregnancy isn't viable?  Upon further googling, I saw the words "early fetal death" and stopped reading there.  I just couldn't read any more.

I've read many heartbreaking stories of pregnancy loss.  But the question I can't really seem to answer is, have I had a pregnancy loss?  I've lost the idea behind being pregnant, that's unquestionable.  But I don't feel like I can really place myself in the same category as those women who've lost pregnancies much later. I only had the idea for really a week, and even then I knew it was early and I knew that ultimately something like this could happen.  

Many women choose to keep their miscarriages and nonviable pregnancies to themselves. After some soul searching, I decided that I needed to do just the opposite.  I needed to share my sadness, my disappointment, in an attempt to not feel alone or ashamed.  I know so many others have been through similar struggles and I take comfort in sharing my pain so that maybe someone else like me can know they aren't alone either.  

I don't know what to feel.  I am sad, but not shattered.  I am disappointed, but not defeated.  My heart is sad for what would have been, but is also hopeful for what hopefully will be in the future.  I hope that we are lucky enough to get pregnant again soon, and hopefully that this time it will stick.  But for now, I'll quietly mourn my baby that never was, hug my fiesty, sweetheart of a toddler that I am lucky enough to have by my side, and feel secure in the fact that I have my best friend, my rock, my husband by my side through all of it.

The Chinese Gender Predictor predicted that it would have been a boy.  So in my mind, I will always think of the son that never really was for me, and hope that he is somewhere out there smiling down on us.

A Mother's Day Letter to My Baby Girl

The Sunshine of My Life

Sabrina,

This will be my second Mother's Day as your mommy.  What a wild ride the past 18 months has been.  As I look back over your short yet universe-altering life, I can't help but think of how much I feel like I'm screwing it up.

Every single day, I see others mothers getting it right.  Just this week I saw Duchess Kate dressed in a beautiful spring dress and high heels walk down steps holding her newborn Princess Charlotte, basically the same day she gave birth.  24 hours after I had given birth to you, I hadn't showered, could barely stand, and hadn't washed my hair for 3 days.  A royal I was not!  I was just happy the catheter was gone and that the walk to the bathroom was a short one.

We had a tough start, you and me.  I see mothers post pictures and blog posts about their first days with their baby, full of awe and wonder at the new life that they have created.  You and I, we had a tougher time. Your first days were filled with tears, yours and mine. They were filled with frustration and pain and feeling like I couldn't get a thing right.  Some mothers, they just take to motherhood naturally, but I unfortunately had a different path. We got there, you and I, but it didn't come easy.  

I am one of those mommies who has to go to work everyday.  Well, except Saturday and Sunday of course.  But those days are spent cramming a week's worth of errands in, grocery shopping and cleaning and laundry, which your saint of a daddy takes care of, and trying to squeeze us time in there somewhere.  The guilt I feel as a full time working mommy will never go away. I spent every day of your first 3 months with you, at home, but then our time together was over and I had to go back to work.  I am sorry that I am not home with you everyday.  I am sorry we don't go to the library for story time or to the park for a play date.  I am sorry we can't go to Target on a Tuesday morning just for fun.  I know there are things that we won't get to do because I have to go to work everyday.  And I am eternally sorry for that, with every fiber of my being.

Sometimes I lose my temper and get frustrated with you, my love.  Another way mommy just doesn't get it right.  I am so full of love for you, but in some ways you are so much like me, headstrong and determined to do it on your own.  Those are the best qualities I could give to you, but some days, after a long hard day at work, or when I'm not feeling well, or when I just want a break, those qualities can push me to, and even past, my limit.  Some days, hearing "NO!" for the hundredth time or having you throw your dinner on the ground pushes me to my breaking point.  I am sorry my love.  I know you don't do it to make mommy mad and I know you are still trying to figure things out in this big world of yours. Just like you are trying to figure it out, I am too.  

But I hope someday, that you will look back at all my imperfections, all the ways that I haven't gotten it right, and realize that somewhere in there was an imperfect woman who loved you with every ounce of her soul.  Who knew she wasn't getting it right, and tried to do better.  I hope you see a woman who loved you but also loved her job, and gave both everything she had.  I hope you see your mommy as someone who wanted it all, and did her best to get it all.  I know I will continue to not get it right.  There will be more bad days when I lose my temper and get frustrated.  But I will never give up on you, on us.  I always wanted a daughter, and God blessed me with the best one there ever was.  I am so lucky to have you, my Sabrina.  You are the best Mother's Day present of all.

Love always,
Mommy

Time to Lose Some Weight! AKA Crush My Soul

That's me on the end- the chubby one in the flowered dress.

Okay everyone, it's time for me to get real.  I mean really real.  I blog about lots of things (infrequently these days due to a high stress job and a crazy life to boot), and I've blogged about my insecurity about my body and my weight before.  But now starts my journey to getting back on track.

First things first.  I don't do diets.  Don't talk to me about Atkins or Paleo or Mediterranean or South Beach or even Weight Watchers.  I just don't do them.  I don't follow them and I fall off the wagon and I get mad and frustrated and give up.  In the past, when I have wanted to lose weight, the only things that have worked are exercise and portion control.  I will not put butter in my coffee, I will not consume coconut oil or whatever other latest fad is going on.  I'm not knocking it for others if it works, and I do have a great respect for the Weight Watchers program because I know it works well for many, some of my family and friends included.  But for me, I have to eat reasonably, while still eating what I want, and to do this I must control my portions.  Easier said than done, judging from past experience.

This isn't my first time wanting to lose weight, but it is certainly the most uphill battle I've faced with my weight.  I had my daughter Sabrina in November of 2013, just a few months after turning 30.  I swear, between the two of those life (and body) changing events, my metabolism, my body, everything changed.  I lost the weight quickly after having Sabrina, but I put quite a bit back on once I went back to work (mostly because I actually could sit down and eat a meal without a crying baby in one arm).  By last fall, I weighed just under 140 pounds.  Come wintertime, stress, depression, and lack of exercise, I went up to 144 pounds at my highest, using my home scale.  Doctors office scales are far meaner and I hate them and refuse to acknowledge their existence.  I'm sticking with my home scale to gauge my measurements.  

Yesterday, I had a sobering experience.  My daughter was napping, so I went to the basement and pulled out my spring and summer clothes to hang up in my closet, in the hopes that the weather will finally take a springlike turn.  I was so disheartened to see that all of my capri pants from last year (post-baby me, mind you) are a size 6.  The pants I am wearing now are a size 10.  2 sizes!!  And I can't even blame baby weight, because last summer I was 6-9 months postpartum, so that ship had sailed.  How is this even possible?  How did I let myself gain this much weight?  I don't even know when or how it happened.  It wasn't sudden, it must have crept up on me, a pound or two there, with no exercise done to prevent it.  

Living in the Northeast is brutal for exercise unless the treadmill or elliptical are your thing. For me, they just aren't.  The elliptical confuses me to no end- it's like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time, something I am not very good at if I'm being honest.  I can't force the upper half of my body to do something different than the lower half.  Bad things will happen.  The treadmill is okay but it is SO BORING and I do not have room for one in my home, not that I'd probably use it much anyway.  That leaves me with walking outdoors for exercise, which just honestly didn't happen this winter.  This winter was either the coldest on record (recent record anyway) or the second coldest.  Most days had below zero wind chills.  Sorry, but I'm not signing up for a 3 mile jaunt through sub-zero temperatures.  Not gonna happen.

Like every other mother out there, time is another huge factor in my weight gain.  Life is so hectic, working full time with a toddler, a teenager (my stepdaughter), and just a normal life to live.  I do a pretty good job of meal planning, so I'm not left scrambling at the last minute for what to have for dinner, because that is when you give in to take-out of the unhealthy persuasion.  But Chinese take-out and pizzas from Sam's Club are certainly part of my reality, because sometimes in the interest of time and sanity, those are the easiest way to get everyone fed reasonably cost effectively and in a timely fashion.  That's just life.  

But it's time to start changing my mentality.  Not to one of obsession with calories, because nothing annoys me more than someone who flaunts their healthy lifestyle in your face, but to one of making smart choices most of the time, allowing for the occasional indulgence in bread and ice cream (my favorites!!!).  To a mindset where exercise, some way, somehow, isn't something that can easily be disregarded.  Knowing that there will surely be days where getting my walks in just won't happen, due to working late or weather or illness or whatever, but not letting that derail me in the long term.  Making my health, my weight, my family's health a bigger priority.

I wanted to share this journey with those around me, because no matter if you are a mother (or father) of little ones or if you find yourself in a totally different place and time in your life, we all have struggles when it comes to diet and exercise.  It is so helpful to be able to share your struggles and your successes with others.  So today, I am officially kicking off my weight loss and fitness challenge.  I challenge myself to walk my goal of 10,000 steps 5 out of 7 days a week and to get to my goal weight of 135 pounds (or less!) in the next 3 months.  

I will check in periodically during the coming weeks to update my progress.  I know I will have setbacks, and I know I will struggle.  But hopefully at the end of this challenge, my own personal challenge to myself, I will come out at the healthy weight I want.  If you have had your own successes and want to share something that worked for you, or share your story, I would love to hear from you.  Just like when it comes to raising a child, fitness and weight loss takes a village too!

What's the Rush? My Fears on Baby #2

My daughter Sabrina, at 16 months, is so stinking much fun right now.  I am loving this age. Yes, she has terrible two tendencies already, stamping her feet and shaking her head no to assert her opinions, but she is growing and changing with every second that passes by. Every day is a new adventure and I love sitting back and letting her grow into whoever it is that she is going to turn into as she grows older and more independent.  

Her independence is as endearing as it is frustrating.  Though I get irritated when she arches her back and grunts her displeasure with different situations, I also remember that this is the daughter I wanted.  One who thinks for herself, one who isn't afraid to speak (grunt, shriek, scream, etc) her mind.  One who would rather do something for herself than have it done for her.  And while some things that she'd like to do just aren't feasible at her age, I am insanely proud of her for wanting to do them.  

My parenting journey hasn't always brought me this much joy, to be honest.  It has been a long, hard battle to this point of comfort and enjoyment.  I was ill prepared for the changes that motherhood brought.  I thought I was mentally (and physically) prepared, but that was far from the truth.  While many women have traumatic birth stories, Sabrina's birth was mostly comfortable, about 1 hour of excruciating hip pain, and a begged for c-section which ended a long 17 hour labor.  That part I'd do over again in a minute.  I had a couple rough days after my c-section, but once I was up and walking around and gaining my strength back, my recovery really was smooth sailing.  Getting my staples out was scary and stressful, but the truth is I didn't feel a thing.  They were out before I even had time to squirm.  Easy peasy, right?  

Sabrina is heading towards that 18 month point at which most couples start discussing planning for baby #2.  Or baby #2, child # 3 in our case, as I have an almost 16 year old stepdaughter, my husband's daughter from his first marriage.  The thought of having another baby crosses my mind each and every day, for one reason or another.  But the truth of the matter is, I don't know if I want to.

I'm sure there is a collective gasp coming from society at large right now.  How dare you not be chomping at the bit to have another baby?  That's what you do in today's society!  You have a baby, then 2-3 years later you have another one.  It's just what you do.  Well, guess what.  I'm not feeling it at this moment in my life.  So why do I feel a huge, overwhelming sense of guilt about that?  Why do I feel like I am less of a mother because I am not charging headfirst into baby #2?

I've blogged before about most of the reasons that I am not rushing to have another baby. This isn't new territory. But what I haven't blogged about is the crushing guilt that goes along with it.  

First off, I was not someone who loved being pregnant.  While my pregnancy was pretty low-key, I slept horribly almost the entire time (you'd think that would have prepared me for the sleep deprivation to follow!), had terrible issues with heartburn, and just generally was uncomfortable.  I had no pregnancy glow about me.  I was simply just a woman who wanted to have a baby, and pregnancy was a means to an end.  People would ask me "Don't you just love being pregnant?!" to which I would snort and reply with some sarcastic comment to signify that NO I did not LOVE being pregnant.  I couldn't wait to NOT be pregnant, as a matter of fact, and I can't say that I have ever really missed that feeling since Sabrina was born.  I am happy to see my feet, to be able to paint my own toenails, and to down caffeine by the gallon if I so desire without feeling guilty or being judged.  

Already mentioned how birth was no big thing for me, and honestly wouldn't be moving forward.  My doctor mentioned a VBAC to me, but if I ever do decide to hop on the mommy train again, it would be on a one way track to the operating room for a scheduled repeat c-section.  Why mess with what already has worked?  I don't know that I would elect for major surgery, but since I already had to with not much of a choice, and I know what to expect, I'll pass on the sitz baths and the fear of using the bathroom in favor of a sore abdomen and temporary lifting restrictions.  Judge me if you like, but I have NO guilt about that part of this conundrum I find myself in.  C section or bust.

But seriously, this is the point in this story where things get dicey.  Pregnancy, eh. Birth, whatever, I'll deal.  The aftermath of birth, life with a newborn, AGAIN?  That's where I have my biggest dilemma.  Newborn phase.  Up every 2-3 hours.  While recovering from a c section.  Only this time, WITH A TODDLER!  Oh my.  It gives me palpitations.  

My Sabrina wasn't and isn't a good sleeper.  Still, at 16 months old, she gets up at least once at night.  A vast improvement from the innumerable sleep issues we've overcome in her life, which my sanity and I are immeasurably grateful for.  But still.  I've had a tough track record with her thus far, generally only getting 2 hours of sleep at a time between feedings in the early months, and with her getting up twice at night until not that long ago.  Forgive me if I'm a little gun shy about going down that path again.  I never again will question why sleep deprivation is used as a torture tactic.  I would have given any military secrets I had, along with my left and my right arm, for a good night's sleep.  With Sabrina, I didn't know what I didn't know.  But now, I KNOW.  I know what I'd be in for.  Yes I survived it once, but at some points barely.  

My biggest and most real fear in having a second baby is opening myself up to the possibility of having postpartum depression. Again.  For the first 3 months of my daughter's life, maybe more, I lived in some sort of drug-like fog.  I felt everything and nothing all at the same time. I felt more like a bystander in my life than a participant.  I had a physical, visceral fear of nighttime.  Because nighttime brought the hardest hours of the day for me, the hours from 12-6 when my saint of a husband went to bed and I was left on my own with a baby that they told me was mine but I had very little attachment to.  This baby that ate and cried (a lot) and slept (a little).  This baby that I knew I loved somewhere deep inside of me but that I more often than not felt annoyed with. What the hell kind of a mother was I?  One that was just going through the motions, I can safely say now on the outside of my fog.  One that knew what she was supposed to do and did it, but not because of some deep seeded motherly instinct.  My husband, my parents, they tried to pull me from my fog, but the truth was I just had to heal, whatever that meant. Time, I think, was the healer.  It healed my body, healed my hormones, and eventually, after a long while, started to heal my mind.  But there were days that were so dark, so unhappy, so scary, that I wasn't sure how I was going to make it.  

There's no guarantee it would happen to me again.  But there's also no guarantee that it wouldn't.  Only this time, it wouldn't affect just me and the new baby, but also my Sabrina. My Sabrina that has already been negatively impacted by her mother's battle with postpartum depression once in her short life.  Could I really do that do her again? 

I keep telling myself that everyone seems to have a second baby.  It can't be that hard, can it?  Every day I see stories in my Facebook feed about friends of mine with one baby adding to their family with baby # 2 on the way.  I am honestly overjoyed for them.  I know that having a sibling adds something to a child's life.  Teaches them to share, teaches them that sometimes others come first, gives them their first friend. But right now, I am not in a place where I am ready to make that decision for our family.  

There are many practical implications to the decision to have a second baby.  We technically do have a fourth bedroom that we could turn into a nursery, but it has significant drawbacks. It is a tiny little room that has no heating or cooling vent in it.  In the winter, it wouldn't be hard to run a little space heater in there; in fact, we still use a space heater in Sabrina's room and it works just fine.  But cooling the room is a more difficult feat.  It has one mini-window that cannot hold a window air conditioner.   So in the heat of the summer, I honestly do not know how that room would be temperature controlled.  Another downside is that room happens to share a wall with my teenage stepdaughter's room.  Our house is old, has little insulation, and certainly isn't sound dampening.  A teenager and a newborn aren't really meant to share close quarters like that, as teenagers are up til all hours in their rooms and newborns are doing the same...  in far different ways.  I just don't see that dynamic playing out well.  Finally, turning that room into a nursery takes away our guest room, which is used when my parents come to visit but mostly is used as my dog's room.  Yes, Baby has her own room and sleeps on the bed in there every night.  Previously she slept in the bed in Sabrina's room.  She obviously made the move to the guest bedroom when that room turned into a nursery.  If our guest room were a nursery, she'd be out of luck, and so would I, as my dog does not do well with change.  She'd be forced to sleep downstairs, which I don't really see going over too well.

We often go to Pittsburgh to spend time with my parents there, visit extended family, and watch our beloved Steelers and Pirates play.  Traveling 6 hours in a vehicle with one child is painful enough, but throw in a newborn and a toddler?  Those palpitations I mentioned earlier are back.  I do everything but stand on my head to amuse Sabrina on those never-ending rides, but throw in a baby to boot?  Mama might opt to stay home instead.  

I know there are always difficulties in life if you look for them.  And yes, I admit that I am not a glass half full kind of girl most of the time.  But the decision to have another baby is one that is life-changing, and I am not willing to make that decision based on societal pressure, real or imagined, or just because "it's what you do".  I may never be fully ready, but the fear and the guilt that I feel is enough to know that I have to trust my "gut" (as Leroy Jethro Gibbs would say) and just wait.  And if, in the end, our family doesn't add Baby #2, I hope that people won't judge me or think less of me.  It isn't a decision that I am taking lightly, that's for sure.