Up's Tears, Down's Tears

I cried twice today.

Once from overwhelming sadness for my father's grief at the loss of his mother, and once when my doctor called to say that I'm pregnant.

They were very different tears.

Yes, my official test came back positive. Any number over 100 is considered great. Mine was 241.

Let's just hope whoever's in there sticks around for a while.

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to Committing Murder

From the start, I had an "unexplained infertility" diagnosis. Or rather an "unexplained infertility, but we think it's an egg issue" diagnosis. As in:

You can't get pregnant on your own, but we think it's an egg issue, so let's introduce the sperm as close to the egg as possible. Four times.

Nope. Inseminations didn't work. What else you got?

Boy, that's strange. But we still think it's an egg issue, so let's do IVF and only use embryos that we know will make babies. Three times.

Hmmm. Wrong again. Is there a Plan D?

Really? It didn't work?? That's shocking, but as a matter of fact, we do have another idea: because we're absolutely certain it's an egg issue, let's use the eggs of some young woman that you don't know, fertilize those, and get you pregnant with embryos that aren't genetically related to you. Two times.

OK. I didn't love it, but I tried it, and still no dice. So, what's next?

Wait, what?? That didn't work?!? I guess that means.... You know, it's kind of a funny thing. Come to think of it, did we say "egg issue?" Because what we really meant is ... well, it's possible that.... It really is funny, if you think about it, but it now appears that you might not have had an egg issue after all. Well, at least not at first, although you certainly do now, because now it's 5 years later, and you're really old. But at this point, -- and when I say funny, what I mean is that you should get ready to laugh because you're totally going to think this is hilarious when I tell you, but -- we now believe it's been a uterine issue the whole time, and you never could carry a pregnancy in the first place.

Yes. Yes, that is funny.

Now, if you wouldn't mind holding my drink while I shoot you...

Bust

About a month ago, I went lingerie shopping and bought myself six new bras. Three are basic black, but two of them are pink, and one has a leopard pattern -- the one I love wearing most of all.

For a while there, I was bummed that getting pregnant would mean that my boobs would engorge, and I wouldn't be able to wear any of them anymore, but judging from the negative home tests I've been getting, this isn't anything I have to worry about.

What a relief.

Getting Testy

I took a home test this morning. It was negative.

Naturally I got pretty bummed out, but then I Google-stalked every woman who's ever peed in the history of sticks, and I accumulated a 6-point plan of rationalization for why I should stay hopeful. It is:

1. Testing 7 days after a 5 day transfer (7dp5dt) is still early
2. I had just peed 5 hours before my test, which didn't allow enough time to let the hCG hormone build up in my urine
3. I drank 12 gallons of water last night, and my pee was way too diluted
4. Turns out, I miscalculated, and I'm actually only 6dp5dt
5. Apparently frozen embryos take longer to implant than fresh embryos, so my positive wouldn't show up until after others'
6. If you think about it, my transfer wasn't until 1:30pm, which means that 7:30 this morning was actually still 5dp5dt, which really is too early, even when you aren't searching through Google's entire caché for flimsy evidence to support your mania

Speaking of mania, I have 3 more sticks to pee on. Stay tuned.

Pro-Choice versus Pro-Life

I discovered a secret to life.

Or rather, I discovered fractions of a secret to life. The first half is that "choice yields unhappiness." The second half is that "choicelessness yields happiness." And the third half is that I'm doing it wrong.

At least these secrets are true according to the dozen or so TED Talks I've been watching lately. They say, for example, that if the only pair of jeans in the world were Levi 501s, then you'd either like jeans or you wouldn't like jeans, but your emotional connection to denim would pretty much end there. As it stands, though, you go into a department store and try on 5 different brands and 12 different styles in 4 different washes and 3 different sizes, and you leave with nothing except feeling short, fat, and out of sync with fashion. Hypothetically.

Translated into donor shopping, this would mean that instead of trying on 18 pairs of jeans, you pore through 5,000 donor profiles, and instead of leaving the store with self-esteem issues, you just pick someone.

That's what I did. She wasn't a perfect fit.

The TED folks would say that this is because I had 5,000 choices, which would naturally lead to 10,000,000 miles of expectation, which in turn would get me galaxies' worth of disappointment. (Measurements are approximate.)

Honestly, though: what are the odds that I would have found her perfect? As anyone who's sat across from me at dinner knows, I'm seriously picky, and that's just with things that go into my mouth. Imagine how much more particular I am about things that go into my vagina?

But the premise of this TED-sourced phenomenon is based on choice, and the truth is that I no longer have a choice of donors. I had a choice 6 months ago, and I made it, so what choice is making me unhappy now?

To help explain what I'm babbling about, I'm going to babble for a moment about something else: grief. Specifically about Elizabeth K übler-Ross's Five Stages of Grief. And most specifically about stage three.

I'm a master at negotiation. And by master, I mean idiot.

First, let me give you examples of how normal infertiles negotiate:
If only I could have a baby, I swear I'd go to church every day, or
If only I could have a baby, I'd work harder on my relationship.

Here's how I do it:
If only I could go back in time, I'd have tried to get pregnant when I was 30, or
If only I could go back in time, I wouldn't have done all those inseminations, or
If only I could go back in time, I wouldn't have "accidentally" had an orgasm 4 days after my second transfer, or
If only I could go back in time, I'd have chosen a different donor.

Yes, there's a part of me that literally believes I will find a time machine and use it to travel into my past so I can make other fertility choices. Let me be clear: the time machine isn't the variable that's up for negotiation. The time machine is a given. The part I'm trying to negotiate is exactly how far back the time machine will let me go.

Now, since selecting a donor was my most recent choice, it's most logical to negotiate for going back 6 months, because the possibility of successfully going back 10 years is obviously absurd.

And how does one pass the time while waiting for this time machine to manifest? One watches a dozen TED Talks about happiness and choicelessness. And in watching a dozen TED Talks about happiness and choicelessness, one inadvertently finds oneself getting grounded, being present, and breathing in the post-transfer, pre-pregnancy-test air.

Along the viewing way, I coincidentally happen to be dabbling with Kübler-Ross's fifth stage of grief: acceptance. I'm finding it a little easier to accept that this donor is going to be my children's genetic parent. Moreover, I'm actually accepting that I'd be lucky if this donor were my children's genetic parent (because the alternative would be an emotional and financial disaster). And mostover, I'm tired of the trying phase. I just want a baby. And this is the likeliest way it's going to happen.

The good news about my potential for happiness is that most of the fertility-related choices are behind me. Case in point: I didn't choose the embryo that was transferred last week. Someone else did. There were 6 frozen embryos, and some random embryologist chose one, thawed it, watched it develop, and then put it in the catheter that was inserted into my uterus.

This is the embryo I didn't choose:

This is the embryo I didn't choose that I nursed through bed rest, the embryo I didn't choose that may have successfully implanted, and the embryo I didn't choose that could have potentially grown by now into the size of a sesame seed.

It's also the embryo I didn't choose whose endurance I'm hoping will be revealed tomorrow morning when I take my first pregnancy test.

[Breathlessness.]

Tennis Anyone?

With a dozen eggs, you can make an entire menu of foods consisting of deviled eggs, a chef's salad, matzo ball soup, fried chicken, a noodle casserole, and cupcakes.

A dozen eggs can also make twelve people. That's more than enough for a football team, a soccer team, a baseball team, or a cricket team.

Two days ago, I had my 5th transfer where a 12th embryo put in my uterus. Yup. Twelve. And so far, I have zero teams: not lacrosse, not rowing, not basketball - not even beach volleyball.

My uterus is where eggs go to ... well, I won't say "die," because that's harsh, but at the very least, it's where they "get composted," and yet I'm still hopeful that one player will emerge at the end of all this.

Very, very, very, very, very, very hopeful.

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.

The Psychology of Transference

Here are my clinic's statistics for taking home an egg donor baby (different from becoming pregnant, of course, which doesn't always yield a baby).

Transferring 1 embryo = 70%
Transferring 2 embryos = 80%

That's 14% percent better odds when transferring two, which isn't a huge difference, but it's nothing to sneeze at. The pickle is this: if I transfer 2 embryos, and the outcome is successful, there's a 60% chance that I'll be taking home 2 babies.

So, to help me figure out if I should transfer 2 embryos, the question on the table is, am I prepared to handle twins? Here are the arguments:

Twin Pros
Instant family
Kids have each other to play with
Twins are cool

Twin Cons
Pregnancy is harder on the body
High likelihood of premature delivery, linked to mental and physical complications
No sleep for the first three months and get very little for the next six
Twins are hard

The cons outnumber the pros, but that's not how decision-making works. You have to ask yourself what's in your gut: do I want twins? And my gut's answer is Yes! absolutely!! I really, really, really want twins! And even though I was afraid of the prospect at first, I've been watching YouTube videos about tandem nursing, and I'm totally ready for the challenge.

Especially because twins are so cool. I mean really, really cool. Everyone loves twins. Twins are so cute, and if you have twins, then people everywhere will stop you to tell you how awesome your twins are, because twins are so cool!

It was during a particularly long daydreaming session that involved a double-stroller at a shopping mall that it hit me: did I only want twins so that I could feel special? The truth was, Kinda. Yeah.

After years of infertility, I wanted to compensate for my uterine inadequacies. I was craving a level of cooing that would make up for all the attention I'd been missing. I needed to show the women who had effortlessly bred before me, "sure, you have kids, but I have twins."

It was ego and pride. It took me a while to figure that out, but once I did, I had to let the idea go. I wasn't willing to let pride win at the cost of premature delivery. Ego doesn't beat out health complications. Ultimately, there was no way I could allow the next steps of my fertility treatment be dictated by my emotional damage, no matter how cool twins are.

This means that (besides obviously needing to to schedule an appointment with my therapist) I'm committed to transferring only one embryo. It's the more rational decision, and the truth is that I can still give my kids siblings to play with; I would just need to build my family one child at a time like normal people do. Besides, even if I do transfer one, there's still a chance that the embryo will split, and I'll still end up with twins, and they'll be identical. Wouldn't that be cool?