You Came Out of My Vagina

You came out of my vagina, but that's not when our story began.

Seven months before you came out of my vagina, I got a positive pregnancy test on the day my grandmother died, and I hoped this time I was really pregnant so that my dad (your granddad? weird.) could get some cheery news. Also, it would make me happy. I guess. Yes, of course it would. Happy. Obviously.

Five months before you came out of my vagina, I saw you on an ultrasound and found out you're a girl. Bummer. I don't like girls. Don't get me wrong: I like women; I just find little girls to be annoying as shit - all that squealing and crying and frilly pink shit. It's so much easier to deal with boys' broken bones than girls' broken hearts. But hopefully you'll be an athlete or a lesbian or into cool music, and you'll hate pink, too.

Three months before you came out of my vagina, I was scheduled for another ultrasound to get a better picture of your hands because so far it looks like you have no fingers, and I don't know if I can love a kid with hand stumps. But no matter what the ultrasound shows, 50% of you comes from your dad's genetics, so I'd be stuck with you. I wondered if this would be different if you were also 50% me, and this is when it becomes clear that I may not have been the best candidate for using a donor's egg.

One month before you came out of my vagina, conversations with your dad go something like this: But what if I don't love her? Don't worry; you will. But what if I don't? I know you; you will. But what if I don't? Stop over-thinking it; you will. But what if I don't? Etc. etc. etc. You can see why this is a problem, right?

The day you came out of my vagina, labor was short, and during the last few minutes, I wondered whether I could stop pushing and change my mind about the whole thing, but there were all these people around me saying things like "you're almost there" and "I can see her head," so I plowed forth.

You were a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing.

When it was over, a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing was handed to me, and I asked, "is this her?" Considering that the other end of your umbilical cord was still inside me, it should have been obvious that I wasn't looking for an answer from the nurse as much as I was looking for an answer from myself.

"Is this her?" meant "Is this it?" It meant is this really happening and did seven years of wanting a baby just come to an end? It meant who will I be as a mom and who will you be as a daughter and what will we be to each other?

It meant that I really wished someone would help me figure out a game plan for what to do if I don't love you.

During the first couple weeks after you came out of my vagina, you wouldn't look at me. You just peed and cried and ate and slept and shit. No eye contact whatsoever, which - frankly - wasn't a great way to get started on your part, now was it? As it was, what with our lack of genetic connection, how did you think we could build a relationship if you wouldn't even look at me?

It was during this period that your dad asked me if I loved you. I said I didn't know yet, which upset him. I guess he thought that the reality of your existence would melt my heart, but he overestimated my capacity to adore people that come out of my vagina.

I felt fiercely protective of you, though. I got pissed when you were left unattended on the changing table for a millisecond as if you could somehow leap to your demise at 2 days old. I woke up several times a night in a panic that you'd been scratched or had a fever or died from SIDS. And every time I picked you up, I was terrified that I'd trip and fall and smash your tiny skull into a wall. My every moment was riddled with anxiety that something awful would happen to you, and that with that, my world would crumble. But anxiety is not the same as love.

You looking at me.

And then some time later, you looked at me. Not a passing glance with untamed eyeballs, but actual eye contact. And that's when I thought, "Oh, hi, baby. How nice to meet you."

Was it love? Well, let's not get crazy. I mean, we don't really know each other yet, and one can't rush into things like this.

But you came out of my vagina, and a little while after that, we met. And now that we have, and our story has begun, it's possible that I'll love you after all.

And as it turns out, you look seriously fucking cute in pink.

Stunted

This blog isn't developing the way I thought it would.

Over the past 2 months, I've started two posts that have yet to be completed: one about the effects of this pregnancy on my sex life (short answer: not good), and another on how I feel about being pregnant with a girl (short answer: not good).

Truth be told, I may still finish these posts and predate them for purposes of chronology. Yes, I realize that's cheating, but I'm a woman pregnant with a donor egg baby, so clearly I'm an ends-justifies-the-means kind of girl.

Aside from this blog, another thing that appears to be stunted is my baby's growth.

All was well at the anatomy scan 8 weeks ago. No cleft palate, no incomplete organs, and no structural issues. They couldn't confirm 10 fingers, though, and I was told that either she was making fists (more likely) or she that had no fingers (less likely). In any case, we needed a follow-up.

Six weeks later, my baby was indeed found to have 10 fingers, but she was also measuring 11 days behind. This puts her in the 10th percentile of fetal development. This isn't good.

They say it might be nothing. That it could be a blip. That she could catch-up over the coming months, and none of this will have been an issue. On the other hand, her small size could be the start of a pattern that will mean a very risky third trimester of pregnancy, premature delivery, and/or developmental delays. They just don't know yet.

And they're making me wait 4 weeks for a follow-up. Their rationale is that the baby needs time to have measurable growth, but I'm pretty sure they're just fucking with me.

So I'm two weeks post-shitty news, and the only thing keeping me afloat is that I think my baby might be growing. My belly has gotten bigger, and I've also been feeling more movements. Like, a lot more movements. Like, the kind of movements where you see limbs protruding from the surface of my abdomen like something out of Alien. It's gross, but I'll take it if it means that my baby's stunted growth will prove to be an inconsequential blip after all.

Either way, it puts the whole "I wish I were having more sex and also not having a girl" thing into perspective, doesn't it?

Tiers of Joy

Admitting that I don't know what to write isn't the best way to up my readership, but what can I tell you? I have no fucking clue what to say.

No, I still don't trust that this is happening. No, I'm still not telling people. No, I'm still not excited. Nothing's going on, and no one wants to read about my continued reservedness, so what am I supposed to post?

I will tell you, however, that I'm not alone in this. Case in point: something a fellow PVED gal said over lunch last week.

I couldn't trust that I was pregnant until 20 weeks, and then I still couldn't get excited for several weeks more. Now I'm almost 34 weeks, and I'm still not at ease, but I am starting to believe that it might really happen.

I've heard other infertile women say similar things, so this timeline is the one I'm counting on. And since I'm 17 weeks today, I might be getting close.

But in the meantime, I got nothing, because you know what Bob Dylan says, ...

Prospective Perspective

I have a question.

I always swore that I'd never consider egg donation. My reasons were that it'd be creepy, it'd feel false, and it'd be socially confusing. But after years of failed in-vitro treatments, my doctor said that the only way to get me pregnant was to use a donor's egg, and now here I sit with fingers crossed, Viagra in my vag, and hoping against hope that tomorrow's transfer takes.

So, have I lost perspective, or have I gained perspective?

And once these last cycles prove a bust, I'll no doubt follow the same trend down the adoption path - again something I swore I could never get into because how do you raise another woman's child and pretend it's your own? But still. When the time comes, I'll do it.

Are these moves of desperation, or is my experience allowing me to open up to other options that I wasn't previously ready for?

I don't know why this question is an important one for me. Maybe it's because I don't like to be reactionary, and I want to know that I'm making decisions with grounded perspective, but either way, it's been nagging me for months. I've been pondering it and imagining that I'd one day blog about my brilliant answers, but I don't have any brilliant answers. Just more questions.

Questions like: what the hell kind of M. C. Escher shit is going on in my head?

So if you have an answer, let me know, would you?

Festival of Lights at the End of the Tunnel

It wasn't the best Hanukkah for me. Lots of drama that's not worth getting into, so I won't, but in between the bouts of mayhem, there was an especially sweet moment.

My mother urged me yet again to think about adoption. She knows of some baby-manifesting lawyer who gives away infants, which means that (1) she clearly has no idea what she's talking about and (2) that she loves me.

Neither of these things is anything new, but then she said this:

Please think about adoption. Please. I know it's not what you wanted, but you'll love your baby so much, whoever it is. And you've been through so much. I know it's expensive, and I know you feel you can't afford it, but I'll help you. Please, let it be my Hanukkah gift to you, and your Hanukkah gift to us.

It was the "your Hanukkah gift to us" part that made me cry. It meant that she would love any kid that I would put in her lap, which was good for me to hear because I knew that, but I didn't really know that. It meant that she wanted grandchildren, and she didn't care if they didn't come from her, or didn't come from me, or did come from a shady attorney.

It surprised me to realize how much that question had been tickling my anxiety, but I feel so much more at peace now that it's quieted. Equally surprising is that I find I have a couple adoption questions for Mr. Baby Manifester, Esq. And I can see asking them, too. Although perhaps not quite just yet.

Quotable Quotes: "Have You Ever Considered..."

Finally a helpful suggestion.

I'll look into it presently.

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?"

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.

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.

Forty Vignettes

I turn 40 next week.

I remember my mother when she was 40. I was 18, so it's not hard to recall. She still turned heads with her beauty and sexy stylishness, but 40 was when she started to seem old to me. Her skin especially. Her hands were softer, almost rubbery. I remember pinching her elbows and counting how long it would take for the skin to bounce back. Sometimes it took a full two seconds.

"Look how old your skin is," I would tell her.
"I know," she'd say. "I'm very old."

My elbow skin takes less than a second to bounce back, which makes me luckier than her, I suppose. On the other hand, my mother was still fertile at 40. I know she was fertile because the summer before I went away to college, my dad told me that she had become pregnant, had an abortion, and had her tubes tied.

She was too old for a baby.

~~~

In 40 days, I begin Delestrogen injections for my donor egg cycle.

In related news, I learned that my donor works at a gardening store, which is why May is the earliest that she can travel for the retrieval. March and April are very busy months for her at the nursery.

There's a critical timeline for sowing seeds, and Spring only lasts so long.

~~~

There are 40 women on the PVED Spring 2012 thread who are cycling with donor eggs around the same time as me.

Out of these 40 women, several have cycled in the past. Some were successful, and some weren't. Many have gone through the whole donor egg process only to end up with a negative pregnancy test. A few women had positives but then miscarried as late as 15 weeks. Two women gave birth around 25 weeks, held their babies for a few days, and then watched them die.

40 women on the thread means 40 stories of infertility. 40 versions of grief and loss. 40 shades of hope that no one hopes for.

We're 40 women cycling through a medical procedure with a 50% success rate, which means that 20 of us will fall on the wrong side of the odds. And as it happens, the first woman in our group transferred two embryos last week, and her pregnancy test came back yesterday. It was negative.

1 down. 39 to go.

~~~

40 is the number of dollars this cycle costs - that is, if you take that number, put a comma after it, and then add three zeros.

I don't know how we managed to throw that kind of money together, and I don't have a back-up plan for what to do if this doesn't work. I just can't think about it.

Someone on PVED recently asked if anyone is afraid that their donor egg cycle won't work.

Um ... yes.

PVED is the Answer

If your questions are:

1. Can someone advise me on choosing a donor?
2. Will I love a donor egg kid as much as I would a biological one?
3. Should I transfer one or two embryos?
4. How do I deal with disclosing to friends and family?

The answer is PVED. Or more specifically, the PVED forum, which you can only access if you have eggs as dysfunctional as mine.

It's seriously the most insightful, knowledgeable, and supportive group I've ever come across, and I'm not even being sarcastic, because I'm never sarcastic! (Except for that last bit.)

PVED (pronounced "PEE-ved") stands for Parents via Egg Donation, and it was started by a DE mom named Marna Gatlin who wanted a community of other DE moms. A decade later, the site is visited by thousands of folks from all over the world.

Now, I'm not going to say that Marna is the most daintily mannered soul on the planet, because she isn't, but blech, who would want that? I need guidance and advice, and I want it from someone who's direct. But she is endlessly caring, generous, thoughtful, insightful, and reflective. She's a hardcore advocate for everything she thinks you and your family deserve based on her dozen years in the field - and she gives the best hugs!

This isn't my first uterine support group. They're all over the web, as you might imagine. But they're ... how should I put this ... OK, so I was a part of one on Facebook, and it was kinda supportive, but mostly it was bitter. Look, bitter is understandable. I was there, so I know bitter. But what I learned from bitter is that it's the armor you put on to protect yourself against sadness and grief. Bitter makes sense, but it's also not what's really going on. And it's ugly.

PVED makes you deal with your shit. Especially Marna. For example, I'd like to think that if Marna met the lady on Facebook who's still trying to conceive after 23 years and 37 miscarriages (yes, really), Marna would have a sit-down that woman. Personally, my hope is that the chat would include some sense-slapping, but that's just me.

So, I'm kind of addicted to this forum, mostly checking out people's responses to questions like Will I love a donor egg kid as much as I would a biological one? and Can someone advise me on choosing a donor?

PVED has answers, and they're really good.

Quotable Quotes: DE vs OE Child

I've been browsing a billion blogs, websites, and forums about egg donation, and I came across this thread:

Do you feel differently about your biological and donor egg children?

Good question, right? The woman elaborates that she and her husband conceived one child using her own egg, but they haven't had any luck with a second, so they're considering using a donor. She goes on to say,

I'm pretty much on board, but I'm worried that somehow I won't bond with the DE child, or that I'll consciously or subconsciously prefer my biological child and mess up my relationship with my DE child. I've seen lots of wonderful posts about how little the genetics actually matter once the child arrives, but I guess I need some reassurance in that regard or if that's not available, at least some candid feedback about the family dynamics that I might expect. Anyone have any feedback?

First of all, I'm completely in love with this woman for so articulately asking such a sensitive question, and I have so much admiration for her openness that it makes me want to cry. (My version of this question was ... well, ... uglier.)

Now, there were loads of knowledgable, wise, and compassionate responses, but this one was by far my favorite:

I have 3 kids - the two youngest via DE ... [and one] genetically related to me ...  I tend to forget that all three aren't via DE. In fact, just the other day, I was wondering if my oldest would ever want to get in touch with his genetic mom. And then I remembered that his genetic mom was, um, me.

How amazing is that?

Sophie's Choice, Reprise

I've been working hard to wrap my head around the ins-and-outs of what it'll mean to raise a child that isn't genetically my own. There are a lot of layers to it, especially since my discomfort stems from some deep-seated issues, but overall, I'd say I'm in a pretty good place with it.

But in rereading a post I wrote a few months back, there's something I said that still haunts me a little. In imagining a future fight with my DE child, I wrote:

When that child's pre-pubescent voice inevitably shouts, "You're not my real mom," my response will most definitely be, "Well, I never wanted you either, Kid."

(I'll give you a moment to close your dropped jaw.)

OK, so, yes, the idea that I might ever say something like that to a child is pretty horrifying, but what scares me a little now is that - even after all this time and therapy - there's still a grain of emotional truth in the sentiment.

Let me explain: It's not true that I won't want the kid himself. Of course I will. I've pretty much let go of any doubt that I won't bond with my DE children, or any children that I might be fortunate enough to raise.

What's true, however, is that I will have never wanted a situation where I couldn't have genetic children. Obviously I'd never want that. Who would? But that's different from "I don't want you." It's different enough that I no longer feel any reticence or reservation about pursuing donor egg IVF - but it's similar enough that I have to admit to still feeling a little scared.

What if my kid discovers how much I struggled with infertility? What if he feels like he wasn't my first choice of kids? I know what I'd say, of course. It'll be something along the lines of, "I'm glad I couldn't get pregnant on my own, because if I did, then I wouldn't have you, and there's no other kid in the world I'd want, blah, blah, blah." I worry, though, that there'll be a part of him that won't believe me, just like I worry that there's a part of me that doesn't believe me.

My self-consolation is this: I probably have about a decade before this imaginary fight comes up, and I can't know what things will be like until I get there. In the meantime, all I can do is trust what I do know: between therapy, my friends, my family, and (above all) N, I'm doing everything I can to be a responsible parent to a DE child, and my intention is to continue to do what's best for the children that I'm working so hard to manifest.

In the meantime, I'm still nervous about saying the absolute right thing to my kid, but at least I'm not nervous about saying the absolute wrong thing. Hopefully that's enough for now.

My Comments on Your Comments

People have tried to be helpful throughout my struggle with infertility, but many times their attempts at support fail epically. Here are a few of the most frustrating.

Your Comment: All you need is to relax. As soon as you stop trying, you'll get pregnant. Just take a vacation.

My Comment on Your Comment: I've heard this a lot, and it always makes me think you're an idiot. By telling me that I'll get pregnant if I just relaxed, it tells me three things:

1. That you don't quite understand the basics of reproduction
2. That you think it's my fault I'm not pregnant.
3. And, because I'm not actually stressed, it makes me realize that you don't really know me, which then makes your advice all the less appropriate.

Your Comment: You're still young. My best friend's neighbor's dog's sister's owner got pregnant when she was 43.

My Comment on Your Comment: It may happen, and that would be great, but the facts are these:

• Women in their 20s have a 25% chance of getting pregnant each month
• By 35, the rate lowers to 10% each month. The miscarriage rate is 25%
• After 40, 90% of a woman's eggs are genetically abnormal

Could there be a good egg in there somewhere? Sure. Might I eventually get pregnant? It's possible, but I'm not going to bank on it.


Your Comment: I'm praying for you.

My Comment on Your Comment: I actually don't mind that you're turning to your mythological deity for my benefit and support, however I do ask that two things never happen:

1. You don't condescend -- and you even accept and validate -- my atheism, and
2. You don't wave your magic prayer book at me in the event that I do finally conceive

While I love, love, love that you're thinking of me during quiet moments of meditation and prayer, a surprise pregnancy doesn't qualify as a win for Team God.


Your Comment: You should see my fertility doctor, acupuncturist, yoga teacher, homeopath, psychic, astrologer, and Chinese herbalist. And also eat pineapple.

My Comment on Your Comment: See, this kind of thing'll make a girl crazy. I'm not doing all that. Also, it would be nice to feel that you trust me and my choices of providers and consultants.


Your Comment: Have you considered adoption?

My Comment on Your Comment: Simply put, Yes, I have considered adoption. Now if I may explain why this question is offensive...

The want of genetic children cannot be satisfied by adoption. The grief of infertility can only be quieted by two things: conception or time. And even when people do adopt, they're still left with the residual trauma from the ups-and-downs of medical treatments, miscarriages, and an asphyxiating level of hope. Those don't just disappear.

Think of the process of healing from grief as a continuum. On the one side of the continuum is the pain of never having kids that look like you, and on the other is peace and serenity about that reality. Wanting to adopt babies is a whole other continuum, and I'm not on that continuum; I'm on the grief one.

Adoption also isn't easy. The process costs upwards of $30,000 and takes a minimum of one to two years filled with teases of "Hey, here's a baby. Oops, just kidding." It's not any cheaper, it's not any easier, and it's not everyone's solution to not being able to conceive naturally.

Maybe one day I'll want to adopt, but right now, I just want to get pregnant.


Your Comment: Keep trying. Don't give up. It'll happen.

My Comment on Your Comment: This is a tricky one. On the one hand, because the process of seeking fertility treatments is exhausting, this kind of  cheerleading can feel very supportive. But on the other hand, people reach the end of their rope, and at some point they need to stop living in a constant state of hope. This isn't giving up as much as it is moving on, which is sometimes the best thing to do.


Your Comment: I've been so sick throughout this entire pregnancy! You're lucky it's not you. By the way, do you know of any good nurseries in town?

My Comment on Your Comment: No comment.

~~~

Tips on What to Say Instead

Nothing. Don't say anything. Really. You don't need to say a word. Just listen. I understand why you keep sticking your foot in your mouth with these idiocies: it's because you don't know how to handle my grief and sadness, and you're just trying to fill the darkness with vapid words. But I'm telling you now that nothing you say will help. It's not about words. Just nod, pass the tissues, and give me a hug.

But if you do need to talk, here are some places to start:

• This must be really hard for you.
• I can't imagine what you're going through.
• I'm so sorry that you're dealing with all this.
• I support you no matter what you decide to do.
• If I can do anything, please let me know.

That's it. Honestly. I know it's not much, but it's all I need.