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.

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?

Dietary Supplements

Here's what happens 3 months into quitting gluten, soy, dairy, nightshades, caffeine, sugar, and alcohol:

1. You never have any gas or stomach pains
2. Your previously painful period cramps completely disappear
3. You have long, regular, perfect poops
4. Your donor gets pregnant

It's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my food intake, but they say dietary changes can be powerful, so I'm going to assume a correlation. I'm also going to assume that you've heard enough about my periods and poops, so here's more about the donor thing.

She texted me three weeks ago, which she does every once in a while just to say hi or to update me about things going on in her life. The conversation went something like this:

How's it going? I'm good! Still not pregnant, but otherwise great. That sucks because you're going to be such a great mom. Aw, you're very sweet. How are you? Really good! I met a guy, and we're probably moving away together, so I'll let you know when that happens. Oh, yay! I want you to be as happy as can be. Me, too, for you! You're the sweetest. No, you're the sweetest.

There were lots of exclamation points, exes, ohs, and more exclamation points -- all of which were sincere, mind you. I think there may have even been a kitty emoticon in there somewhere, although I'm not sure why. Then there was this:

Me: Hey, one last thing before you go. Have there been any other pregnancies with your eggs since the first recipient? I'm just curious if there's anything I should know about your fertility.

Donor: Well, I didn't want to say anything, but I took two tests this morning, and it looks like I'm pregnant. That's why I texted you today. I wanted you to know right away, but then I wasn't sure if I should tell you because you've been going through such a hard time.

Can I just say how much I've grown to appreciate my donor? Yes, I had reservations about her in the beginning, but when it comes to my donor's personality, thoughtfulness, and adherence to the parameters of our contract, this girl's been awesome. She knows that medical and fertility updates are important to me, and she's unendingly thoughtful, sweet, and respectful about it. Personality-wise, I couldn't have chosen better.

And I'm actually excited about her pregnancy. To ride a wave of delusion for just a moment, I LOVE the possibility of my child having a genetic sibling who'll be the same age. My donor and I both intend for her to meet my child(ren), and it would be so wonderfully cool if she and I had virtual twins. Very Post-Modern Family, no?

I'll concede that if my quest ends in a bust, then her child will be a reminder of mine that never was, but then again, if I never get pregnant, then we probably won't stay in touch, so it won't be an issue. (My avoidance coping mechanism is smarter than your honors student.)

But back to the diet, here are a few tips that have helped me get through being denied the most delicious foods on the planet:

1. For meals, all you can eat are fruits, nuts, legumes, gluten-free grains, vegetables, meats, and eggs. Just accept it.
2. For flavor, because so many spices are made from peppers (a nightshade), you're limited to salt, peppercorns, cumin, turmeric, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs. Outside of that, squeezing a little lemon or lime onto veggies can be good, and a modified peanut sauce works, too.
3. For dessert, you can alter cake and muffin recipes, but otherwise the best thing I've found is tahini mixed with honey and spread on rice cakes. It's better than it sounds, but I won't refuse your pity.
4. The West Wing is streaming on Netflix, and it's just as compelling today as it was when Jed Barlet was my presidential antidote to Bush 43.

Once more, it's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my diet, but you can't prove a negative, so let's assume a correlation.

Speaking of negatives, my pregnancy test will be on April 7, which is also my 41st birthday. That'll be fun.

Psychopathic Naturopathic Medicine

(Three posts in three days, I know. Shit's getting real.)

I've started seeing naturopaths. That's naturopaths plural. Meaning three of them.

My main naturopath says that the reason I can't carry a pregnancy is threefold: lack of circulation, elevated toxicity, and increased inflammation. To ameliorate those things, I am two weeks into abiding by the following protocol.

1. Acupuncture. For full-body circulation and not just infertility. (Once a week.)
2. Homeopathic Unda Numbered Compounds. If you're thinking "what the fuck," then we're on the same page. I'm not sure, but they seem to be magic medicine that's taken in a magical way. All I know for sure is that they taste like booze, which is the only good thing about them. That, and I like saying "unda." (Fifteen drops three time day, an hour away from food.)
3. Pregnancy Prep Enzyme Pills. I actually used to take these a few years ago because the cross-eyed chick with the tattoos at my health food store recommended them. They didn't work. (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
4. Curcumin Pills. I know what you're thinking. "Cumin," right? Well, you're wrong because they're made of turmeric. I'm taking them because turmeric apparently decreases inflammation. Doesn't seem to be working for folks in the Middle East, but what do I know? (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
5. Abdominal Castor Oil Heat Packs. I used to do this, actually. Not on myself, because it's disgusting, but back when I was a massage therapist, I would use them on clients. You put a gross amount of castor oil on your stomach, place a disposable cloth on top, and apply a heat pack wrapped in plastic on the belly. It draws out icky stuff and makes nice poops. (Daily for 20 minutes.)
6. Mayan Abdominal Massage. This is exactly what it sounds like: a Mayan Shaman created a massage that makes people pregnant. If you stopped reading after "Shaman," then you'll never know how badly I want to be your best friend. (Once or twice a month by the therapist. Daily on myself for 10 minutes.)
7. The Anti-Inflammatory Diet. This means:
   No gluten
   No soy
   No dairy
   No nightshades
   No sugar or sweeteners
   No caffeine
   No alcohol
   (Forever, or until I kill myself.)

Of these seven dos and don'ts, it's the diet that's most impacting because it means I can't eat out, and this is a HUGE problem because restaurants are my hobby, my sport, and my most favorite thing that N and I do together. And if you're about to say that I can find a way around it, then you haven't thought it through.

Think I can get away with Mexican food if I order rice, beans, and corn chips with guacamole? Not if the rice is cooked with tomato, the beans have chili powder, and the guac has sour cream. Perhaps some sushi? Sure, as long as I stick to sashimi and plain white rice, since I can't have soy sauce, miso soup, or sushi rice (which is seasoned with sugar). Or maybe some breakfast? It's easy to modify a cheese omelet with a side of potatoes, toast, and coffee with cream, because all I have to do is order plain eggs. Problem solved.

Truth be told, at 2 weeks in, I'm starting to get used to it. Or, at least I've stopped crying about it (yes, literally). And I do feel better after I eat, so I suppose something's working. I am not happy about it, though.

But I mentioned that I'm seeing three naturopaths, so here's the scoop on that: the first doctor is the one overseeing my whole treatment, giving me my herbal meds, and doing my acupuncture. The second naturopath is the one doing the Mayan abdominal massage. And the third naturopath warrants some storytelling.

The third naturopath likes every bit of this protocol, but she feels it's not quite as insane as it could be, so I need to add three more things:

1. Pregnancy Tea. Your basic raspberry leaf concoction. (Two or more cups a day.)
2. Utrophin PMG. The main ingredient in these pills is bovine uterus, which means that they're pills made from a bovine's uterus, which means that I'm taking bovine uterus pills that are made from a bovine's uterus. (Two pills twice a day with food even though the thought of consuming bovine uterus makes me want to vomit.)
3. Pelvic Floor Massage. How is a pelvic floor massage different from Mayan Abdominal Massage? Well, only one involves getting massaged inside my vagina. (Once a month.)

Allow me to elaborate on this last point, if you will. While others before me have paid good money to have their pussies rubbed, I never imagined that one of those people would be me. However, a friend of mine had it done after 2 years of trying to conceive on her own, and the month after her first treatment, she got pregnant. I don't think this will happen to me, but it also seems worth trying. Besides, it's something to blog about.

So, in conjunction with the adjustments that my doctor recommended, this is the Kitchen Sink Cycle. Although truth be told, it will probably more commonly be referred to as the Final Cycle, because it's official: after this, I'm done. And while I'm scared about what this might mean, it feels good to have made the decision. Infertility has taken up too much of my life and my body, and -- although I will continue to try and manifest a kid or two by other means -- I need to take my body out of the equation. Enough is enough.

In the meantime, I'm going to do everything the naturopaths tell me to do and hope that the pelvic floor massage will get me my happy ending.

Second Helpings

I've switched doctors at my clinic. I loved Dr. M, and I miss him terribly, but he seemed to be out of ideas, and I wanted a fresh set of eyes on my chart.

So, Dr. H and I sat down to discuss a March transfer, which would normally mean that I wouldn't be taking any pills right now, but he actually wants me on daily doses of:

1. Baby Aspirin for increased blood flow,
2. Vitamin D because normal Vitamin D levels are above 50, and mine is 12, and
3. Prenatal Vitamins with DHA for increased folic acid and increased whatever DHA is.

The big change, though, is that there will be a couple of shifts to my medication protocol in February. He's going to add:

1. Estrace, which is estrogen to strengthen my uterine lining, and
2. Viagra, which is either to thicken my lining, increase my blood flow, and/or make me grow a big, hard cock.

There's more going on, too. Just you wait.

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.]

Quotable Quotes: “You’re Good”

In case your man needs support in seeding those eggs.

Sincerely,
Christopher Walken

(PS: Thanks to those of you who've been checking up on me in the days leading up to my transfer. You make my heart sing. For those of you looking for something more than a Christopher Walken pep talk, I'll post something more meaningful in the coming days -- at latest during bed rest, because what else will there be to do? xo)

Plagiarizing Frankenstein

I could have written Frankenstein.

If we're talking about the story of someone who is overwhelmed by grief, who can't accept life's fate, who wants so desperately to defy the limitations of our bodies that the only escape is to create a human composite made of other people's body parts, then yes, I could have written Frankenstein.



Like the eponymous Victor Frankenstein, I'm doing everything I can to bring an unnaturally conceived person into this world: a brand new life spliced together from other people's body parts by combining painstakingly selected pieces in order to create my very own monster.

Two centuries ago, this was a horror story. Some argue it was the original tale of science fiction. Today it's science fact.

There are those who don't like science facts, however, and many of them strongly oppose egg donor in vitro. They see the procedure as a severe encroachment on the laws of nature and an ungodly experimentation on human life.

They're not entirely wrong.

I'm aware that donor egg IVF is some freaky shit. I recently got pretty skeeved out myself after reading an article about how donor egg babies are more strongly linked to pre-eclampsia - a condition that was essentially described as the uterus rejecting a foreign body that it doesn't recognize as its own.

I read "foreign body" as "Frankensteinian monster."

All of which brings to mind the last time I read Frankenstein during a college course on The Gothic Imagination where the professor drove home an essential question:

In the book, the monster is actually a loving, emotional, and vulnerable being, whereas Victor himself is an arrogant man who ignores the grotesqueness of his scientific interventions because he's too much of a self-absorbed coward to accept the limitations of the human body's vulnerabilities. If this is the case, then who is the real monster? The creature or Victor?

Or, since we're plagiarizing: my baby or me?

But before we demonize me or Vic too quickly, it bears keeping in mind that most medical procedures were once thought creepy and weird. The first organ transplants were over 100 years ago, and I don't imagine those went over too well. Isn't it possible that donor egg in vitro won't always be met with the same cocked heads and scrunched faces that I get today?

Either way, I'm doing it. My donor's egg retrieval is in 3½ weeks, and my embryo transfer is in four. In 5½ weeks, I'll have my first pregnancy test, and at that point we'll know if there's a little monster in the works.

Copyright laws be damned.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Eggs

Google "pregnant celebrities over 40," and you get over 20 million page results. Yes, there are a lot of them in Hollywood, but it isn't because of age-defying seaweed wraps or chemical peels. Those have no effect on ovaries.

It's because of IVF procedures and donor eggs.

As I've mentioned before:

• By 35, women have a 10% chance of getting pregnant each month. The miscarriage rate is 25% 
• After 40, 90% of a woman’s eggs are genetically abnormal 
• After 44, women have a less than 1% chance of getting pregnant with their own eggs even if they use IVF.

This means that Hollywood moms are using IVF and egg donors behind closed doctor's curtains, and they're trying to keep it on the down-low in an effort to preserve their youthful image.

Conversely, the purpose of this post is to out them.

~~~

Donor Egg Moms Who Used Surrogates
This group is pretty easy to identify since almost all women who use surrogates also use egg donors. Many women try to suggest that their surrogates are carrying babies fertilized with their own eggs, and this could be true for younger women (as in the case of Dennis Quaid's wife who was 36), but among women over 40, it doesn't really work that way.
* Giuliana Rancic is having a baby via surrogate at 37. (Fingers crossed for a healthy baby due summer 2012.)

Joan Lunden had two sets of twins via surrogate when she was 42 and 44.

Sarah Jessica Parker used a surrogate to conceive her twins at 44.

Angela Bassett had twins via surrogate when she was 47.

Annie Leibowitz had twins via surrogate at 56.

Cheryl Tiegs used a surrogate to deliver twins when she was 53. I love her story best because she told Larry King that they were conceived using her own eggs, which pretty much means she's crazy.

~~~

Donor Egg Moms Who Carried Pregnancies Themselves
This group is tougher to guess at, but when it comes to moms over 44, it's fairly safe to assume they've used donors. For women closer to 40, it's less obvious, although twins are a pretty big clue, especially if their babies follow years of infertility. Anyhow, here's my list:
Nicole Kidman had a baby at 40 and another at 42. A third baby was born a year after that via surrogate. With all her history of infertility and miscarriage during her 30s, I suspect that she used donor eggs for all three.

Patrick Dempsey's wife had twins at 41. Considering the 5 year gap between this pregnancy and their first daughter, I'm going with egg donor.

Mariah Carey delivered twins at 42 after years of struggling with infertility. She credits the miracle pregnancy to acupuncture. I credit it to an egg donor.

Iman had a baby at 44. A successful IVF is possible, but statistically unlikely. I'm going with egg donor.

Jane Seymour delivered twins at 44. Donor.

Marcia Gay Harden had twins at 44. Donor.

Mary Stuart Masterson was pregnant with twins at 44. Egg donor. [She was supposedly due summer 2011, although I haven't seen any reports about a successful delivery, so hopefully things didn't take a bad turn for her.]

Marcia Cross gave birth to twins at 44. She's admitted to going through IVF treatments but not to using donor eggs. She has, however, acknowledged that egg donation exists. Baby steps.

Mimi Rogers had a baby at 45. Egg donor.

Susan Sarandon had babies at 42 and 46. Egg donor. (Although the kid she had at 39 obviously has her genetics.)

Jane Kaczmarek had babies at 42, 44, and 47. Donor, donor, and donor.

Kelly Preston had a baby at 47. Donor.

Holly Hunter and Nancy Grace each had twins at 47. Donors.

Bridget Jones scribe Helen Fielding gave birth at 43 and 48. Donor, obviously.

Geena Davis gave birth to twins at 48. Egg donor fer shur.

Beverly D'Angelo had a baby at 49. That's forty-NINE.

* Elizabeth Edwards had kids when she was 48 and 50.

Annie Leibowitz gave birth when she was 51. Obvee. [As noted above, she subsequently used a surrogate for twins.]

Jennifer Aniston isn't pregnant, but she's 43 and a long-time heavy smoker, so I'm calling it early: egg donor.

~~~

IVF Moms
Then there are the celebrity moms who have done IVF. Again, I'm totally fabricating this list based on assumptions, but twins are a giveaway, and singletons born to moms close to 40 are suspect, too. My guess is that many of these women have also used donors, but I'm less sure of these than I am of the group above.
Rebecca Romijn had twins at 36. It's possible that this was natural, but I was infertile at 35, and we used the same wedding photographer, so I'm going with IVF.

Julia Roberts had twins at 37 and a singleton at 40. Definitely IVF. [More specifically, my guess is that the second pregnancy was a frozen embryo transfer leftover from her first cycle's retrieval.]

Jennifer Lopez had twins at 39. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Lisa Marie Presley gave birth to twins at 40. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Courtney Cox Arquette had a baby at 41 after years of struggling with infertility. Definitely IVF. Probably egg donor.

Julianna Margulies had a baby at 41. IVF is likely, particularly since it was her first child. Possible egg donor.

Diana Krall had twins at 41. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Molly Ringwald had twins at 41. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Celine Dion had six IVF cycles and a miscarriage and then finally gave birth at 42. It's possible that the 7th try was the charm, but an egg donor is more likely.

Angelina Jolie is pregnant with her second set of twins. I realize that she's only 36, but - as my friend A pointed out - the odds of having two sets of twins is pretty low. That combined with the fact that she's crazy makes it clear that she's using IVF. Own egg, though. And Pitt sperm, obviously. I mean, wouldn't you?

~~~

I suppose there should be some moral to this blog post: something about how bad it is that these upper-class, professional female role models are perpetuating the myth that you don't have to start worrying about your biological clock until you're 45 even though the true start-worrying age is 27, and how bad it is that celebrities are setting real-life women up for failure when instead what they could be doing is educating folks that ovaries expire, and that women would be wise to make more informed decisions when it comes to their plans for family-building, and that the only way to do that is to reject the illusion of Hollywood youth, glamor, and invincibility once and for all.

But, whatever.

Right now I just feel like outing them.

~~~

* Update, April 24, 2012: With the announcement of Bill and Giuliana Rancic's surrogate pregnancy, I decided to keep this log updated as pregnancy news emerges. Names preceded by asterisks denote additions made after the initial post.

What My Astrologer Said

About a year after my chemical pregnancy and the depression that followed, I decided to give IVF a fourth and final try. And I had good reason to be optimistic about it: my astrologer said that this time it would work.

At my last chart reading, he laid it out in no uncertain terms: July 2011 was going to find me pregnant, and March 2012 would bring me a baby.

OK, so he might not have said it exactly like that. He might have said something more along the lines of, "July is going to be a good month for you, and so is March," but being that July and March were 9 months apart, and that "good" equals "pregnant," it was obvious what he meant.

Which is why I wasn't phased when the doctor said my chances of success were between 5 and 10 percent. Yes, those odds are low, but... well,... didn't you hear what my astrologer said?

On perfect schedule, we started stims in June. Great. But a few days in, my ultrasound showed only 3 follicles growing. Cycle cancelled.

Shit. What the hell would this mean?

I wondered if my astrologer meant "around July." Or, maybe I was actually born at 9:52 instead of 9:50, which would throw my whole chart off. In either case, it was obvious that I was supposed to have an August pregnancy. No, wait; I had to wait a cycle. So, September. Obviously.

Except that when I went in a couple weeks ago for my September suppression check, my doctor found cysts, which means I have to delay yet another month.

Clearly my ovaries didn't believe in astrology.

Nor does my doctor. I clung to my paper drape after the ultrasound and tried to explain to him that I was supposed to have a baby in March, and that my reproductive system was delaying things significantly. He shook off his confusion and responded as best he could: "If you want to become pregnant, your best bet is to use a donor egg. Nine months after you start a donor cycle, you'll have an 80% chance of taking home a baby."

In the moment that he said that, it didn't occur to me that he was making this prediction without having any idea what time I was born because... donor egg?

Un(en)titled

I don’t deserve this.

I don’t deserve my infertility or the years I spent struggling with the most complex grief I’ve ever known. God knows, there are worse tragedies in the world, but there’s something about the pain of infertility that is deepened by its inherently enduring hopefulness. It forbids you to let go. I spent over 4 years living in monthly anticipation that something good would happen. “Don’t give up,” it said. “There’s still one more thing to try.” So I hung on. And on. And on. And I didn’t deserve that.

I also didn't deserve my generous and loving family, the education I've had, or the summer camps I went to when I was young. I don’t deserve a nice house, the means to travel, or to eat out when I want. I don’t deserve a husband who is willing to work as hard as I am at making our relationship beautiful, nor do I deserve access to the therapy that helped us get here. I don’t deserve my above average intelligence, my great health, or a face that still gets me carded at 39. I don’t deserve a lifetime of good relationships, loads of dear friends, and (in case I haven’t mentioned) my incredible family.

I didn’t deserve any of these things because deservedness has nothing to do it. You get what you get. Some things are good; some things aren’t. That’s just the way it is.

It’s a simple truth, but it didn’t occur to me until now: I'm not entitled to fertility. Being unable to conceive at 35 was a stroke of bad luck, but considering the context of the rest of my life, it seems pretty fair. I am absurdly privileged, and there is no reason that I should be able to have children on top of all the embarrassing number of advantages that I've had – advantages for which I was never even been especially grateful.

Until infertility. Infertility mocked my expectations. After my first failed IVF, infertility made me stand in line behind a pregnant woman while I bought cat food. Infertility flooded my Facebook feed with chubby cheeks and onesies while I was bled out a miscarriage. It ridiculed my grief and was indifferent to my tears. It made me want and didn’t let me get. Infertility humbled me.

I didn’t deserve infertility, but it taught me to recognize and appreciate all the privileges I never earned. I am grateful for how it’s changed me, but I still won't say that I’m grateful for infertility itself, because for fuck’s sake, it hasn’t changed me that much.

Baby Blue

I went into all this infertility stuff with a wide-open heart. N and I had just gotten back together after being separated for a year, and - being more in love than ever - I felt armed and ready for a little hoop jumping. Not even just ready: when I realized that getting pregnant would require medical treatments, I was oddly excited.

Maybe it was the lessons we'd gained from therapy; I had thought that we were such a healthy couple when we first got together, and it turned out we were as damaged as any other. But we dealt with it. We worked hard. We cried, reflected, and made ourselves as vulnerable as can be, and then we came through the other side with a closeness that I didn't know was possible.

So what if we needed blood tests and hormone checks? I didn't even mind ovarian examinations, as long as I was waxed. And providing sperm samples satisfied whatever public sex fantasies we may have had, so that part was actually kinda fun - especially that we would always go to breakfast afterwards. It was all totally cool because these hoops would just make us more prepared parents.

I was wholly optimistic. In point of fact, I'd registered for this blog in 2007, but I never wrote a single post because I thought, "Well, I'm about to get pregnant, so blogging about my experience would be disrespectful to women who were really infertile."

My Zen lasted about 2.5 years.

In 2010, it started to occur to me: this actually might not happen. I might really be infertile. And that's when I started to get a little testy. Moody. Grumpy. Depressed. Despondent. Devastated. Even (and I find the words hard to type) kind of suicidal.

Which was weird because to be honest, I was kind of disgusted by women who were dramatic about their infertility. "Oh, my god. I can't get pregnant. I should just kill myself." Dude, seriously? It's a three step process: face the facts, grieve, and move on.

Well, yes, but that second step is a bitch.

Rule of Three

The Rule of Three is a writing principle that says things are funnier in threes. Three Stooges are better than two. Jokes are stronger when they include a rabbi, a priest, and an imam. And this third example, which isn't an example at all, but rather an empty sentence that serves to reinforce how good threes are.

The exception to this rule is in vitro fertilizations.

Most people who delve into the world of fertility treatments don't go in thinking that they'll have three IVFs. There's the multiple daily injections, the ultrasounds and blood draws, and an anesthesia-induced procedure that retrieves a dozen eggs from engorged ovaries -- all of which costs thousands of dollars and most often culminates in an "I'm sorry" phone call from a nurse.

No, three of those is a lot.

But for some reason, I was sure I'd have 3 IVFs, which is why it was strange that I was shocked when that first "I'm sorry" call came. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have gone to a friend's baby shower that day, but conveniently there were mimosas.

The rest of that afternoon went as you might imagine: I downed 3 flutes of bubbly, left the shower, bought 4 bottles of wine, restrained myself from punching a pregnant lady at the register, and drank myself to sleep.

The second failed cycle ended about the same, except instead of a shower and champagne, it was vodka and a bath.

The third IVF test result, however, was positive. It was my first positive, and with that the first set of happy tears since the baby quest started three years earlier. I even told two friends. "I'm pregnant," I said for the first time in my life. It felt like a lie, but I figured that was because I was in shock. It didn't occur to me that it was because it wouldn't keep.

Two days later, I had my second pregnancy test. The numbers weren't doubling like they should have been. After the third test, the doctor confirmed a chemical pregnancy. I was advised to stop my injections and let the fetus miscarry.

~~~

If I were to philosophize about the rule of three, I would guess that what makes the principle true is that the first two examples make you anticipate a logically sequential third outcome, and it's the unexpected turn that makes the third thing funny.

The exception to this rule is a false sense of relief.

I shouldn't have let myself be happy. I shouldn't have placed my hand on my belly and thought about my baby. I should never have exhaled because at the end of that exhalation, I was punched in the gut, and then there was no air left to get to my brain to tell me that it would be OK.

And it would be OK, but not for a while.