Fall from Grace

My grandmother was a woman of grace. She bore 11 children in a 2-bedroom home, cared for her husband through a decade of Alzheimer's, and lost her eyesight near the end of her life, and the only time I ever heard her complain was when I mixed the fruit salad with my hand instead of a spoon.



It actually wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized she'd had 11 children. Before that, I only knew my mom to have 9 siblings, but in poring through old pictures with my grandmother, I came across a photo of half a dozen pint-sized aunts and uncles sandwiching a toddler who I didn't recognize, and when I asked her about the mystery child, all she said was, "He was a boy." "What boy?" "A boy that was."

That was it. No yearning. No grief. Not an ounce of longing for the boy that was. Just a graceful nod to what is.

Now it would be romantic of me to imagine that my grandmother was inspired by some Buddhist philosophy of non-attachment on the path toward liberation from suffering, but closer to the truth would be to admit that she was - like most third-world women knocked-up at 15 by men twice their age - repressed. But I don't care. I still admire it. Her style was so elegantly dignified that nearly 20 years after her death, I remain haunted by the ease with which she could raise her chin, inhale a single breath, and turn her head toward whatever direction lay acceptance.

I am not this way. Unlike my grandmother, when I'm confronted by grief, I curl up into a ball of despair and wallow in my want. My donor egg IVF cycle fails, and I sob a small mountain of tissues until it peaks at an elevation that mirrors the depth of my sadness, and then I cry some more for shame that I could want anything so profoundly.

But that's the irony of the thing and the part I'm most ashamed of: I don't even really want a donor egg child; I'm only chasing this ghost because it's the next thing to hope for. So not only do I long, but I long for something that I want and don't want in equal measure. Desperation for a broken paddle in an ocean storm.

Was she stronger than me, my grandmother? Was she smarter? Wiser? Braver? Or was it instead that she gritted her teeth because she knew that her armor would crumble under the weight of a single tear? Whatever her secret, I yearn for that most of all because right now I'm lost in this canyon that divides what can't be with what might, and the vastness between the two is causing my trans-generational fall from grace to echo with an ever-fierce and violent crash.

In the meantime, I ask myself and I wonder, but nothing comes. There are no answers. No truths to be revealed. Just the occasional whoosh of my want as it flails about without composure. And the waiting. Always more waiting. Waiting for peace, waiting for my period, waiting for the bundle of something that could end up being joy.

Or perhaps just waiting for the crash. That might be good for me, too.

Beta Beta

The second beta was 11.32, which means that this pregnancy isn't viable, so I'm stopping meds today.

Good thing, too. I need a drink.

Alpha Beta

This morning's result was 17.47. This is super low by beta standards since most providers consider anything below 50 to be negative, but when I urged my nurse to lay it out for me doomsday style, she wouldn't do it. She insisted that she sees these things go either way equally often. Dr. Google seems to agree.

I'll know more after my second beta on Saturday.

Also, I published this post privately yesterday, and I'm only sharing it with you now because yesterday I wasn't prepared to expose my grief to you as I wrote it (ugly, ugly grief). But since then I've eaten something, cried with friends, was held by N, and saw my therapist; and although my grief is still real and true, my reflecting on it has made it ebb back into a nook somewhere. But I know it'll be back. I can feel its fucking tentacles undulating at my tear ducts.

PS: How do you spell "karma?"

Pee Antipathy

Wednesday, June 20 – 8dt5dt. I peed on another stick this morning, and the line was darker than yesterday's, so I went back to bed and cried. The line was darker, which means I'm probably really pregnant.

Bummer. I was sort of hoping the line would disappear.

What if one of my other embryos is better than the one they put in me? I have 6 totsicles on ice, and if this pregnancy fades away, I could have another shot at a better-looking, smarter child. But none of that matters at this point anyhow. I'm already pregnant with whatever this is that's growing inside me.

If it does keep growing, that is. I can never eat when I'm depressed, and if I don't eat something soon, this baby might just whither away from malnourishment. Or I could accidentally miss a couple estrogen pills. Or stop taking my shots. Or maybe the yolk sac will be empty. Or the thing could just fall away on its own. This embryo is about the size of a poppy seed right now, so I'd never notice it go. And how much would it really matter if it isn't actually mine?

OK, it's mine-ish, I guess. And everyone keeps telling me that at some point I will absolutely love this baby and I won't give the genetic thing a second thought. That we'll bond. I believed it before or else I wouldn't have moved forward with the transfer, but now here I am again: wondering if I will love this child as much as I should. I suppose I could eventually, but all I know right now is that no one would have to assure me of these things if it were my egg.

But it's not my egg, and these aren't my genes, and maybe that's a good thing. I'm not that great. People think I'm a good person because I work at non-profits and volunteer and do yoga, but the truth is I'm vain. And I judge people. I judged a woman yesterday for wearing an oversized Elmo t-shirt, and I'm judging this baby for not being genetically related to me. I'm judging myself for being a shitty person, and I'm judging you for thinking I'm a shitty person. And if you don't think I'm a shitty person, then I'm judging you even more.

Maybe it's always like this for donor egg recipients. Or maybe I'm more fucked-up than the rest. God knows I've talked about all this shit before, but I sort of thought that the bulk of my grief was behind me. Granted these spiraling thoughts of gloom are fewer and further between, but what the fuck, dude? I'm pregnant now - so far, at least - and this isn't exactly the time to consider whether or not configuring a genetically-engineered child was a good idea.

A pregnancy 5 years in the making, and I'm upset about it. Ain't I a piece of work?

However Faint

Tuesday, June 19 - 7dt5dt. In infertility culture, the pee-on-a-stick mantra generally goes something like, "A line is a line, however faint."

And so it would appear that I'm kinda, sorta, a little bit pregnant.

Testing, Testing

Monday, June 18, or 6 days past my 5-day embryo transfer (that's 6dp5dt, for you locals). This morning, I peed on an EPT Digital Early Pregnancy Test that I found left over from a couple years back, and the result was negative.

I'm not surprised; 6dp5dt is pretty darn early, and digital tests are notoriously insensitive, but I needed to pee on something today, so I thought the digital stick would be a good candidate. I'm saving the First Response Early Result Tests for when I'm more likely to have a positive (like tomorrow, mayhaps?). FRER tests are the most sensitive, but I think the real reason PVEDers swear by them is because we love to stress over things, and "ohmygod, is that a faint second line?" is the ultimate stress-out question in infertility culture. Granted, it's super easy when the digital screen just tells you "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant," but can it really be trusted with evaluating that second line? I mean, what if you can only see the second line in a certain light? What then?? There's no lighting inside those sticks. No room for interpretation. Just "Not Pregnant." They don't even say "Sorry" or offer you a cookie. Nothing. Come to think of it, those digital tests are assholes. I'm glad I peed on it.

Waiting on Pills and Needles

A daily jounal since last week's transfer:

Tues, June 12 - Transfer Day: First day of bed rest. Sneezed and panicked. After reading that a PVEDer still got pregnant after puking the entire day after transfer, I felt better. Then N got excited that my stomach already looked to have a baby bump. Declined a fourth piece of lasagna.

Weds, June 13: Second day of bed rest. Boredom plus the Internet equaled panic that my 6.3mm uterine lining was going to fail me. Wrote a worried email to my nurse at 9:58pm. By 10:26, I was pissed that she hadn't yet written me back. At 11:02, I sent myself to bed for having a bad attitude.

Thurs, June 14: Bed rest officially over. My joy at being vertical was offset by my grief that this cycle is going to be a failure. And no, this wasn't negativity; it was pragmatism. Also, global climate change is going to destroy the world, so whatever.

Fri, June 15: Reread an email from my nurse who stressed that a lining above 6mm is all they need, especially when my other numbers were good. Decided that I could be pregnant after all. Then I took a long walk, which I'm sure caused a miscarriage.

Sat, June 16: My boobs hurt, I have cramps, and I'm exhausted, which obviously means means I'm getting my period. Or that I'm obviously pregnant. Rinse. Repeat.

Sun, June 17: Spent the last 6 months promising myself that I wouldn't obsessively take home pregnancy tests before my beta on Thursday. Went out this morning and bought 3 home pregnancy tests. My new promise is that I won't test until Wednesday. No, Tuesday. Or maybe Monday. No, Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday. Or maybe Monday.

Yup. This is going well.

Quotable Quotes: Sunday Morning Pillow Talk

Sometime between dawn and bagels...

Me: I know we aren't supposed to, but I think we should have sex.
N: Don't write checks your pussy can't cash.
Me: Fair enough. Want to do a crossword?
N: Sure.

This is the least fun way to make a baby. Ever.

Gesundheit

One embryo has been transferred, and bed rest has begun.

So far so good. Except that I sneezed.

I keep wondering if the way I sneezed caused so much impact on my mid-section that my uterus seized and caused the embryo to purge out of me. Or maybe the embryo got decimated by the violent crush of my uterine wall like some torture device from the Middle Ages. Or perhaps it met with some other sneeze-related demise too gruesome for me to even imagine.

Well, just in case my little guy did survive the Darwinian sneeze test, I'll keep best resting until Thursday morning, as prescribed, and then I'll go in next Thursday for my beta.

In the meantime, fingers crossed that I don't sneeze again. And also that I get pregnant.

My Biological Clock Has One Hand Clapping. Sometimes.

So, I got caught in an undertow of grief the other day. I could try to defend myself by saying that I freaked out because my estrogen level is 2500 instead of the normal 150, but I'd rather just accept the fact that I freaked out because I freaked out.

Today is a good day, though, due mostly to my trying to keep in mind the following four things:

One. All donors are going to present themselves in a "buy me" kind of light, and this is something I should have anticipated. Instead I took my donor's profile at its word and developed expectations about her that later turned out to be untrue, and I realize now that this is one reason why intended parents (my husband included) don't want to meet their donors. But it's always been important to me that my future children have the choice of knowing their genetic parent, and despite the fact that I don't love my donor, I still think that meeting her was the brave and right thing to do. I have no regrets on that count.

Two. All breeding is a crapshoot, and there's no reason for me to think that my eggs would have produced better children than my donor's eggs will. So what if my donor is heavier than she said she was, that she's more photogenic than she is beautiful, and that she isn't brilliant. Women are born with 1 million eggs. Men produce over 400 billion sperm over their lifetimes. This means that N and my donor can breed a possible 400,000,000,000,000,000 different types of people. Right now thirteen of these four hundred quadrillion exist in the form of zygotes that are developing at my clinic's embryology lab. All I can do is hope that they're relatively good ones.

Three. Nurture over nature is a mantra that floats around on PVED quite a lot. That and epigenetics, which is the study that looks at the extent to which people's brain, body, and character are formed by elements other than genetic code. The other day, I posted my emotional crisis on PVED, and a dozen lovely PVEDers rallied around me saying things like, "My child is exactly like me in ways that I can't begin to explain. Don't worry too much about the donor. Your child will be yours." OK, PVED. I believe you. And I love you.

Four. When I first got into this infertility thing, I adopted a mantra:

My biological clock has one hand clapping.

This philosophy was meant to serve as an inspiration and reminder that this is first and foremost a process of self-reflection. Moreover, my success at the end of this experience wouldn't be a child but rather an awareness of who I am in the context of this challenge. This meant releasing expectations, accepting outcomes, and embracing my world as it was.

Over the past 5 years, I've failed to live up to my mantra more than I've succeeded. I still have hopes and expectations, and I don't always do the amount of reflective work that I should. My biological clock just isn't as Zen as I wish it was.

But in the wake of being bowled over by grief at the start of the week, I've tried my best to re-remember this philosophy. I've seen my brilliant therapist twice, I've let myself feel vulnerable around my friends and e-quaintances (yes, you!), and I've had such rich and sweet conversations with N that I've managed to fall in love with him all over again - yet again.

So, yes, I had a freak-out a few days ago because despite my best efforts, sometimes my biological clock goes cuckoo. But sometimes my biological clock actually does have one hand clapping, and today is a good day.

The Fert Report

Here are the results from the June 7th retrieval:

20 eggs were retrieved
15 were mature
13 fertilized

By Tuesday, June 12 - the morning of my transfer - the number should go down a little, but there'll probably still be at least 8 or so, which is considered very good.

Who needs more than 8 children anyhow?

Buyer's Remorse: Egg Edition

I met my donor for lunch yesterday. The following are excerpts from our conversation.

My Donor: "I'm really good at a lot of things. Like flower arranging. I'm great at succulents. Look at these pictures.
Me: "They're beautiful."
My Head: "I hope she doesn't google search my house and see how bad my yard looks."

My Donor: "I'm also great at make-up. I want to do make-up for the movies. Like for Johnny Depp."
Me: "It's wonderful that you know what you want to do."
My Head: "But your eyebrows are drawn about an inch too thick, and they're kind of scaring me."

My Donor: "And I'm a great writer."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Your emails and texts suggest otherwise."

My Donor: "So, what else should I tell you? Oh, yeah! I have a son! He's 10."
Me: "That's right. I remember that from your profile."
My Donor: "He lives with my mom. I was too young and crazy when he was born."
Me: "Do you have a picture?"
My Donor: "Yes, you should see him. He looks exactly like me."
Me: "How cute. He seems very happy."
My Head: "Oh, god, he's fat. My kids are going to be fat."

My Donor: "I was a really funny-looking kid. I had a big head. And then I grew up, and I got skinny and pretty."
Me: "..."
My Head: "You're not that skinny. Or that pretty."

My Donor: "I'm really glad you're pretty. I was hoping the recipient was going to be pretty. I don't know why. I just was."
Me: "..."
My Head: "How I look doesn't matter at all because my genes die with me. Yours, on the other hand, will live on in this arrangement. Lucky me."

My Donor: "From my last cycle, the lady's having twins. I love the idea that there are all these kids from me all over the country because I know I'm a really great person."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Holy shit. I'm breeding a narcissist."

My Donor: "I might get a glass of wine when our food comes. I know they said not to, but I don't think it matters. I drank wine throughout my whole cycle last time, and they still got, like, 26 eggs."
Me: "..."
My Head: "What?
"Also, WHAT?
"Also, they may have retrieved 25 eggs (not 26), but only 18 fertilized, and only 5 made it to transfer. That's the number that really matters. Five.
"Also, who knows how alcohol affects the eggs with all this medication?
"Also, how much have you had to drink during this cycle?
"Also, if you're drinking, what else are you doing that you aren't supposed to?
"Also, do you know this is costing me $40,000 that I don't really have?
"Also, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

~~~

On the bright side, I finally have a distraction from the panic that embryos won't implant because my uterine lining is only 6.3 mm thick when it should be over 7. I'm not even sure if I want them to implant.

I should have chosen another donor.
I should have tried IVF sooner rather than wasting all that time with inseminations.
I should have tried to get pregnant when I was younger.
I should have planned my life better.

Why did I do this donor egg thing again? Maybe being childless wouldn't have been that bad. Better than having overweight, not-too-bright, narcissistic children. Better than raising kids that aren't my own.

And all the while, egg retrieval day is tomorrow.
Ugh.