Therapy is Stupid

It's been months, and I still can't say it.

I can say, "I'm," and I can say, "pregnant," but so far I haven't managed to say them in sequence. Instead I default to, "I'm 14 weeks." Or to close friends I say, "I had a transfer at the end of March, and so far things are going well."

Or in the case of telling my parents, I just handed them my most recent ultrasound pictures, and I let them figure it out.

Unfortunately for me, my therapist picked up on my evasion the other day, and within minutes, she was trying to make me parrot her words: "I'm pregnant, and I'm scared."

She tried to make me say it, but she failed, and instead I spent the hour explaining to her why therapy is bullshit. I developed a very sound, four-pronged argument:

1. The more I let myself feel, the harder I'll fall if something goes wrong, so denial is a sounder approach in this situation.
2. If the Buddhist goal is to practice non-attachment, then isn't my way better?
3. Why bother feeling one way or another if it won't change the outcome?
4. I don't want to.

She had rebuttals.

1. If I do end up "falling," then my denial will only make the fall harder. She argued that if something bad happens, then I'll have to process both the pregnancy and the pregnancy loss at the same time, and that would make the pain more profound.
2. Non-attachment doesn't mean not feeling. Non-attachment means accepting the situation for what it is - including my feelings.
3. It's true that feeling one way or another won't change the outcome, but it will inhibit the experience of a positive outcome. I can only feel as much joy as I can grief, so if I want to open my heart to happiness (and love and bonding), then I also have to open my heart to fear.
4. Of course I don't want to. That's because I'm pregnant and I'm scared.

Ugh. Stupid therapy.

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?

Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe

Watching shitty romantic comedies is my most guilty pleasure.

Actually, that's not true. Watching shitty romantic comedies is a guilty pleasure, but my most guilty pleasure is watching shitty romantic comedies over and over and over again.

Anything with Reese Whitherspoon, Meg Ryan, or Julia Roberts are obvious must-see-four-dozen-timeses, but I'll even watch Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore vehicles at least 8 or 10 times over. Hell, I've seen Jennifer Aniston's Along Came Polly twice, and that movie is terrible.

It's a disgusting vice, I'll admit, but I do have a small shred of dignity that enables me to draw a line somewhere and keeps me from seeing one particular chick-flick a second time. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's the one where Sandra Bullock is a brilliant but uncouth attorney who works for High Grant's amoral yet lovable billionaire, and because he drives her crazy, she gives him her notice of resignation after which they fall madly in love and live happily ever after. (If I've spoiled the ending for you, I'm sorry. Also you're an idiot.)

I'm hoping you know the movie title so that I don't have to write it because I refuse to write it because it contains a grammatical pet peeve of mine that frustrates me more than almost any other: the absence of an apostrophe.

I will, however, write the title of the movie as it should have been, which is Two Weeks' Apostrophe Notice. The apostrophe is silent.

Similar to Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe Notice, if there were a documentary film about my day yesterday, the title of that movie would be: Two Weeks' Apostrophe Delay. The apostrophe is, again, silent.

Yup, my donor has to delay the cycle for two weeks because she can't get off from work until June. I'm less than thrilled, as you might imagine, but I'm actually quite fine. I'm not crushed or mad at her. I'm not even remotely bothered by it. It really is totally fine.

I let my fellow PVEDers know about the postponement, and they appropriately booed and hissed and grumbled at the news. They really are a sweet and supportive bunch, and I'm super grateful to have them on my side.

But this isn't a tragedy. It's just two weeks' delay. Things could be far worse. I mean, someone else could have blogged about it, and there'd be apostrophes missing all over the place. How infuriating would that be?

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.

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.

Thoughts from a Bath

[June 2010]

I hate this bath. The water's too hot. There's no point. I have no point. I can't breed. Our only biological purpose. Why bother living? I'm just killing time until I die. Or kill myself. I should kill myself. I miss Merlin. My poor Mer. I can't believe you were eaten. I'm so sorry. I should have protected you. It's my fault. I wish I were eaten instead. I wish you were here. I wish I weren't here. When is this going to end? My head is sweating. Dripping into the bath. Or maybe they're tears. It doesn't matter. This water feels good. I could impale myself on top of a tree. A pine tree. Or maybe a redwood. I could fall on top of one. Feel the tip of it pierce my stomach and come out my back. A tree in my empty womb. It would be pretty up there. Falling. It would hurt. I want it to hurt. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I wish I'd known. Infertile at 35. It's not fair. I must have done something. I didn't think I was bad. It's my fault. I deserve this. I'm a terrible person. There's no way I could get to the top of a tree. I'd have to be catapulted. Or dropped. They did that in Magnolia. Something about SCUBA diving. And a fire. Someone would have to help me. What am I saying? This is ridiculous. No one would help me. I need to shave my legs. I'm so hairy. I'm a monster. I could run the car with the garage door closed. That's a better idea. They did that on Six Feet Under. The woman left a note. I hated that show. I was glad when they all died. I wouldn't leave a note. Who would care? Kids are the only ones to leave a note for, and I don't have kids. I'll never have kids. I can't believe I'll never have kids. The garage idea is good. Better than the tree. I wonder where I fall on the suicidality scale. Strange that I could evaluate myself right now. That it's part of my job. That would make an ironic headline. Fucking local news. They do like me at work. But they don't know me. Who cares. I don't care. A knows me. He loves me. I should call A. I will. I'll call him now. No. It's late over there. I don't want to bother him. I'm probably not suicidal. I don't know. The garage idea is good. Except for the fumes. I hate gas fumes. I'd have to take pills first. I should get pills. I feel fat. Fat rolls of belly fat. Barren belly fat. I should stop eating. It doesn't matter. What kind of pills? I wish I could fall on a tree. Nothing's going to change. This water's cold. Nothing ever changes. I like the tree idea. I hate this bath. I should get out. There's nowhere to go. No version of my life that I want to live. I want to die. I want it to end. I want this to end. When will this end?

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.