Fertile vs. Infertile

     I have been thinking today about the fertile world, where pregnancies can happen accidentally and pregnancy is something to vigilantly guard against. This is a world in which stopping all methods of birth control (or sometimes even while taking birth control!) quickly and easily results in babies galore! In contrast, the infertile world is a land of extreme highs and lows where the wait for a baby can stretch on indefinitely. It is a place where all extreme methods of conception are considered and tried, often times repetitively.
     In these two worlds, the route to motherhood is drastically different. For instance, in the fertile world 85% of women can expect to be pregnant roughly a year after tossing out the prophylactics. In the infertile world a woman never knows when the fertility gods will smile upon her, open her womb, and bring forth a new life. A fertile woman might feel nauseous and constipated with sore breasts and a propensity to vomit at strong smells during the first trimester of her pregnancy. An infertile woman might experience sore breasts, cramps, hot flashes, headaches, nauseous, and crazy-hormones just trying to achieve pregnancy. Fertile women might complain about their morning sickness and extreme discomfort as her body grows and stretches to accommodate her growing baby. Infertile women might suffer in silence as they endure grueling medication, invasive and reptative testing, and monthly disappointment, knowing they would do anything to have a baby. Fertile women worry about labor and delivery; infertile women worry they might never feel a new life forming in their belly. Fertile women prepare a new room for their baby, carefully selecting the right colors and themes. Infertile women redecorate the extra bedroom to look like anything but a space for a baby they might never have. Fertile women count the days until they find out the sex of their baby while infertile women count how many cycles they have been trying to get pregnant. Fertile women talk incessantly about the new thing their child is doing. Infertile women wonder if they will ever get to attend parent-teacher conferences, baseball games, or dance recitals.
     Tomorrow I have my saline ultrasound (weather pending - we are looking at 1/2 an inch of ice coming our way) and more blood will be drawn. For whatever reason, this round of Clomid has caused excessive heat flashes, headaches, and only a few dizzy spells. My breasts are not sore yet, but I know they will be in another week or so. We will see if I am ovulating and they will tell us when to have sex. And I still have to get the 2 hour glucose test done. I am doctor weary and would just like to be pregnant already!

I will praise thee for I am fearfully and wonderfully made - Psalm 139:14

     Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations. Jeremiah 1:5

     So, this week I made it to church. I was so proud of myself that I nearly twisted my arm out of the socket to pat myself on the back. Until I got there that is. . . . I was sitting by myself, enjoying the space, when a young couple came in during the praise and worship singing and sat next to me. They have a beautiful baby girl, maybe around a year old (I am bad at guessing baby ages - you know, probably because I don't have one or something like that. . . .). She is precious and adorable and was wiggly and inquisitive today. She cooed and talked to herself, grabbing her mothers cell phone and delightfully dropping it to the floor repetitively. And she was sitting right next to me. Smiling at me intently. It took everything I had not to start sobbing at every glance. I love babies! But, for my own sanity I find myself tuning them out, ignoring their baby talk, and just generally not paying any attention to any baby in my midst. I suppose that is slightly better than breaking down into a slobbering, sobbing, mess every time a baby looks at me. Slightly.
     I listed the Bible verse from Jeremiah above because it was mentioned during the service today. And of course, at this point I ceased to hear the sermon, but rather began thinking about destiny and how God has a plan for each one of us before we are even born. This is something I have always struggled to understand, now more than ever. My poor finite brain cannot grasp how God can have a plan for everyone, how the journey can be all mapped out, yet we are all given free choice and can make our own decisions at every fork in the road. God knew, when my mother conceived me (after 5 years of trying and then giving up - I guess it runs in the family), God knew I would be sitting here today pondering my own infertility, waiting for my own baby. Perhaps it is not for me to know, but I do wonder why this would be part of the plan. Is there something I have to learn in enduring this trial of infertility? Is it because I am not ready to be a mother? Is there something we need to do before we are prepared to be parents? Like perhaps win the lottery or something . . . Maybe, it is just to make me more grateful when I have that baby in my arms; to know the tortuous wait and worry so I can truly understand the miracle that is having a baby. I will never take my baby for granted, never think fertility is a given.
     This lead me to thinking about the Bible verse I used as the title of this post. I have always held a certain disdain for my own body because I am a large Marge and was teased mercifully in school (this could be a whole blog in and of itself by the way. . . . ). My sister is like Barbie, all skinny and perfect. So, no surprise that I haven't been terribly praisefull about how I have been made. Now, however, I have plummeted to new depths of self-deprecation. I start at the beginning of the month sweet talking my body into ovulating and snatching up a little swimmer. I try to cajole, bribe, threaten, and convince my uterus to accept the egg-sperm conglomerate. When this does not work and I am faced with my period and the cramps, moodiness, and general uncomfortableness that comes with it, then I begin berating my body. Why can't it just "work" like a normal female body? As the reality of another failed month settles upon me, I begin the self-flagellation of wondering why I have done wrong in my life that my body is so against me. I don't believe enough or I am not deserving enough. I wobble between the two. And I curse my inability to reproduce. I rebuke my broken lady parts and lament my predicament.
     I suppose all of my doubting does not help my sanity. I want to stay positive and I want to let myself go; go over-the-top, crazy-lady, ridiculously hopeful that this month is my month! But, the higher I soar in hope the deeper the crash and let-down; it is sheer torture. Therefore, I keep my hope small, like a mustard seed, and temper it with reality, that it might not happen. Before I started Clomid for the first time in August, I prayed with my pastor and his wife that God might open my womb and accept new life. I thought for sure this would be it! God would certainly want to showcase this conception in such a miraculous manner! Right before I am scheduled to start infertility treatments, viola!, I am a pregnant! After three months of not ovulating, God reached down and flipped the switch, releasing an egg which met with some sperm and resulted in our baby. The estimated date of my period ticked by and with each day I let hope grow. I took a home pregnancy test and it was negative. But, I had HOPE and I BELIEVED wholeheartedly that is must be some fluke. I went to see my doctor and got a blood test. This too was negative. Hope deflated, leaving me alone with despair, weeping for the audacity to think it could be that easy. I had to take progesterone to start my period and then the Clomid,. And here I am today. My arms are still empty, my heart is still broken and I am tucking that little, tiny minuscule of hope deep down into my heart of hearts to keep it from dropping me to the depths of despair yet again. . . .

Keeping Romance Alive

     I think my husband and I have a pretty good sex life. I mean, I'm satisfied and I believe he is too. But, sometimes I feel like it is just a means to reach a specific end - a baby. There have been numerous times in the past two years when I just demand we make love because it is the most fertile time of the month. I try to keep things fresh, but honestly, it begins to feel like a chore after awhile. And now we are going to have a nurse and doctor telling us when to have intercourse. Sometimes, I miss the spontaneity - just having sex for the sake of having sex - and not always thinking like, "This could be it! We could be 'making' our baby right now!" Often times, I am not even remotely in the mood but we have to "do it" the weeks between my period for the best chance of pregnancy.
     We have tried every position we can think of to achieve conception. I purchased pre-seed thinking that it would help the little swimmers reach their destination easier. Too bad I didn't know there was nothing for the little fellas to meet; just the vast, empty, infertile space within my barren womb. I have looked into some homeopathic options to take for infertility, but have never really known what to take. I've heard raspberry tea leaves work and some Chinese herbs. And cough syrup improves cervical mucus. I guess I never knew what was wrong with me, so I didn't want to go trying random remedies. I think now I would be willing to give it a try as long as it doesn't interfere with my other medications.
     So, this morning I called the lab to see about getting my 2 hour glucose testing done. They said they did it on Saturday's as long as I was there and seen before two hours before they close. So, despite a raging headache, I got out of bed, dressed, and ran over to the lab. I sat there for half an hour and they kept taking other people ahead of my because they had appointments (no mention of appointments being needed when I called them). So, I ended up leaving because it was beyond two hours before they would close. And now I don't know when I will be able to do this test. . . Ugh! I just want to get it over with already!

Secrets

     When we first started trying to conceive, we did not tell anyone. I don't know why, really. I guess we just wanted it to be a surprise - a really nice surprise! For the first year only one friend knew we were trying. But, the first year ticked by and then the second year began and our optimism began to fade. Slowly, I began revealing our difficulties. I told my mother and my mother-in-law and some close friends. But, I haven't "come out" to everyone yet. And, I feel I have good reason not to, given some results after telling people I trusted. It's really a self-preservation thing.
     I also struggle with the "do you have any kids question?" or the "are you guys planning to have any kids?" To the first question, I usually answer, "just furry kids!" then laugh like it's such a funny joke. If I am in a particularly delicate mood I answer "no" in a way that does not encourage further questions. To the second question, generally I sigh then say, "when God wants." For some reason this always prompts the question asker to wonder what this means. It means, whenever God feels like letting my egg meet Flacos sperm and then letting this precious bundle of new life settle into my uterus, we shall then have kids (or at least a kid). When the asker is particularly nosey I finally just tell them straight out - we are struggling with infertility (so leave me the hell alone, ok?). I guess that is all I have to say tonight . . . . :)

Journal

     When we first began this little journey, I went out and bought a journal intended to be written to the baby as he/she grew. Dreams we had for him/her, how excited we were to meet him/her, and lots of cutzie things that bring a happy little tear to your eye. I recently found this dust-covered journal, empty of course, waiting two long years to get an entry. As I sat down to thumb through the pages devoid of my rambling script, a few tears of regret and heartache escaped and trickled down my face.

     When I was graduating from college, someone had asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. I was 22 years old and I couldn’t imagine how my life would be different without homework and reports and classes. By this point, I knew I was going to be in the Peace Corps for the next two years and then I was thinking I would most likely go to grad school. I figured since I didn’t find my husband at college (like so many of my friends) that I was unlikely to find “him” until I was in grad school or beyond.

     In the beginning of August of 2004, I received notice that I was selected to join the Peace Corps as a Food Security (aka Agriculture, aka Aggie) Volunteer in Nicaragua. I would be leaving the end of August for Miami to officially join the Peace Corps and then two groups (the Aggies and the Environmental Education group) would be off to the largest and poorest country in Central America. I was so excited. In my junior year of college I had studied abroad in Athens, Greece and absolutely loved it! I just wanted to see another part of the world. Well, as you can imagine, Nicaragua is drastically different than Greece in just about every way.

     I survived the first three months of training (I lived with a host family who only spoke Spanish and my host mom made me soup for breakfast – Ramen noodle soup with crema (like sour cream) and ketchup with bananas or plantains in it – I kind of miss that soup) living near other volunteers and having regular daily contact with other English-speakers. Then I was sent off to a dusty, hot, dry farming community in a section of the country known as “the oven.” I wanted to be in the mountains, where it is cooler and gets more rain. I got the opposite. I was living with another host family, but they were not as familiar with “gringas” as my first host family (with my first host family, I was their fifth aspirante – aspiring volunteer). Instead of soup for breakfast, I got a sweet bread that was loaded with ants (not on purpose, but they are hard to keep out of things down there – oh yes, live ants), which I gallantly picked off the bread and threw to the (dirt) floor for the chickens to squabble over.  

     Things got better when I moved into my own house (it is nearly unheard of for a single woman to move out on her own) and could cook for myself. I would spend the hot afternoons reading and napping in my hammock. In the evening I would go to the neighbors well to draw a bucket of water to bathe. I was making friends and my Spanish was improving. I had two good friends in the community where I lived. Juana was a petite woman and mother of 5 children. Her eldest daughter, Masiel, was my very first friend in the community and introduced me to her mother. Martina was vibrant and fun-loving. She was also a mother, but her two children were younger. We went to a quinceñera together and that is where I met Juana’s eldest child. We danced together and he kissed me. He declared we were boyfriend/girlfriend and I thought he was joking (he had been drinking guaro – and so had I). Two weeks later he showed up at my door and the rest is history. This was my Flaco. To make a very long story short, we ended up getting married and he moved here to the U.S. four years ago.

     So, the five years after college went by very quickly and without realizing it, I got what I wanted out of those five years and I arrived at age 27 with everything accomplished I had hoped I would accomplish. I was in the Peace Corps and saw a small slice of the world (and tried to help less-fortunate people) and I fell in love and got married. At the time we got married, I assumed that I would become a mother for the first time before my 30^th birthday. As I paged through this journal, the reality sank deeper and deeper into my soul. In order to be 29 when my first baby is born, I would need to be pregnant now. Instead,  I will be at least 30 when I have my first baby. This is not what I wanted at all. And I am struggling so much with this up-coming birthday (keep in mind, my birthday is in October). Generally, I only think about my birthday when it is upon us (you know, to remind Flaco how much he loves me and that I expect something nice for my birthday). But, now I am just dreading the big day in October. My mother tells me I am crazy that 30 is no big deal. But 30 means I am leaving my 20s and it feels like the tipping of the scales (also, Flaco is four years younger than me, so he will still be in his 20s for another four years, while I am in my 30s – ick!). I can't tell you why, but I find it so painful to be ?(nearly) 30 and childless. . . . .

     When I was younger, I always wanted to have a big family. I think they are cool and there is always someone around to hang out with and whatnot. Of course, when you are young you do not understand all that would go into having  such a large family. When I began baby-sitting I was about 12-13 years old and I began to realize that a larger family (and to me, large was like 10 kids!) was not as easy as it looks on TV! So, I scaled back to about 4 kids. And Flaco and I have decided we would like to have 3-4 kids. Ideally, I would like to have 2 years between each child. If I am 30 when the first baby is born, then I could potentially be 36 or older when the fourth child comes along. Of course, Flaco would only be 32. . . . . Maybe we should switch birthdays?

     The regret I have is that we did not start trying to conceive earlier. We would not have been ready if we had a baby, thus the reason we waited, but if we had started earlier then we might have been parents by now. Alas! Hindsight is 20-20 and foresight is blind.  So, here we are! I am beginning my 6^th round of Clomid to get my string of pearls (I read that sometimes this term is used to refer to polycystic ovaries because the cysts resemble a string of pearls around the ovaries – this makes it sound so much nicer than it actually is) to squeeze out a little egg. I tucked the journal back into the corner of my closet to continue waiting to be filled with our thoughts regarding our precious baby. Hopefully, this time will come soon! 

Nothing new to say, but I will write anyway

     Other than more snow, nothing new is happening here. I filled the prescriptions for the Clomid, antibiotic, and pain med today after work. And, because it seems do dam fitting, while I was receiving my fertility med a young mother (maybe a few years younger than me, not like a teenager) was cuddling her sweet baby girl as she dropped off her prescription. I couldn't help myself. I was staring at her wistfully while the pharmacist tech was asking me some mundane question. I had to bite my lip and dig my finger nails into the palm to stop myself from bawling. So silly.
     I stayed up too late reading a little booklet the doctors office gave me about PCOS. It was informative about the condition, but not too encouraging about the treatment for infertility. Clomid was choice number one. Been there, tried that, got hormonal and dizzy but no baby. Option numero dos is Metformin to reduce the amount of glucose made by the liver. If this does not work on it's own, it might be combined with Clomid. Should this concoction not result in two pink lines on the pee stick, then FSH or FSH plus LH are given. Of course, this can result in multiple pregnancy. Or, as our doctor said, "a Jon and Kate situation." My husband (bless his soul) thinks having a boatload of babies all at one time sounds like more bang for our buck. *** Please note, my dear hubby is from Nicaragua and he has a different idea on nearly everything! I would never consider pulling an octo-mom! *** Ok, so if these 4 meds do not work for the PCOS-dammed woman, then they do something called Ovarian Laproscopic drilling. Anything with the word drilling in it, is not something I would like to experience! Luckily, it is a surgery done under anesthesia. In essence it is drilling out the manly-man hormones on the cysts on the ovaries. This might cause scaring on the fallopian tube, thus impeding pregnancy. The final option is good ole IVF - in vitro fertilization. I went to bed, hoping (dare I say, praying) we would not have to go beyond medications. We shall see! Tomorrow, let the Clomid begin!

And the diagnosis is . . . .

     . . . . . . Drum roll please! Ththththtththththth . . . . PCOS! Now, Johnny, tell them what they've won!
     Today Senor Flaco and I went to see the Infertility Doctor for the beginning of the testing we shall endure. First, we were taken to different rooms to have 9 (yes NINE) full vials of blood drawn. Then, Flaco had to pee in a cup and he was done. Next, behind door number two! Mrs. Flaco, you get . . . . a new car!! Er, no. A pelvic exam (with my period I might add, which was rather gross) and some swabbing. The doctor listened to my heart and then felt my thyroid. I know, how romantic. He said the right side of my thyroid was a little enlarged and I might need an ultrasound of my thyroid, depending on what the test results reveal. After the feeling of the thyroid, the nurse did an ultrasound of my uterus and ovaries. I had always thought the first ultrasound I would get would be to "meet" my growing baby. Nonetheless, it was fascinating. "Do you see this (black blob that looks like Slimey from the Ghostbusters)? That is your uterus." Then, "This (planetary system) is your ovary." And the doctor proclaimed it looks like I have polycystic ovaries because of the random bumps around my ovary.
     In two days from now, I will begin my 6th round of Clomid (100mg). Next Tuesday I return to the office for a saline ultrasound (for which I must take an antibiotic the day before, the day of, and the day after the procedure and I was given a prescription for a pain medication because it will "pinch" and cramp - fun!). They are also going to take more blood (they are vampires, I swear! Every time I see them they want more blood!). I have to take a 2 hour Glucose test (2 hours sitting at the lab! Seriously!) They are going to see me like every 3 days or so to follow my ovulation. They will tell us when to have intercourse or we can choose to have insemination. After all the tests results are back, the doctor will see us again to discuss everything and make some recommendations (if we don't get pregnant). I am swimming in paperwork and literature, not to mention prescriptions to fill and more tests to take!
     I know I should be glad to know at least one thing that is wrong and that something like one in ten women have PCOS. And it is apparently something that should be relatively easy to treat. I still wish I didn't have it. But, knowing is half the battle, so now we can begin trying to circumnavigate the broken parts to achieve pregnancy.
     As a side note : I was talking to a work friend today and mentioned having an appointment today after work. She knew about the struggle we've been having and asked how it was going. We talked a little bit and I told her I was losing hope. She told me I should pray for a baby. Listen, if I had a baby for every time I prayed for one, we'd be over-populating the state with more kids than the Duggars and Brangelina combined! Well, my friend says, "But, you have to pray correctly and have a relationship with God. And you have to be willing to make some changes. Then you will see the miracle, like we have seen so many times." Now, keep in mind, this friend is not trying to get pregnant at the moment and has no children. Her father is a pastor of a very small church. I'm sure it is my PMS-ing hormones, but I felt like saying, "Yes, you are right. I try to live a good life, have compassion, treat others kindly. I go to church and I seek a relationship with God (although, I do get angry with Him at times). I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. But, because I can't manage to pray correctly, some dirty crack whore is getting knocked up with her 4th child while I am doomed to suffer childlessly. I'm sure that was in some teaching from Jesus. Thou shalt pray correctly else thy baby be given to a homeless crack whore on welfare." I found it rather hurtful. Who are you to judge my relationship with anyone? I am not perfect, but neither are you. Because there is something I do that you don't like, I don't deserve to have a baby? Really? That seems rather harsh to me. While I learn how to pray and make changes to receive my miracle, perhaps you can pray for some compassion and understanding? Deal? Sheesh!! Sure feels good to get that off my chest!!!

Isn't that just kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic

     Hola from the Pit of Despair. . . . I keep telling myself, "I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. IamfineIamfineIamfineIamfineIamfine." This doesn't help much. I feel like my cramps mock me. I can't keep my mind on task. It just keeps bouncing around, finding the tinest thing to remind me there is no baby this month. I hurt as I begin to heal, yet again. I've been here before.
     Tomorrow we have our second appointment with the infertility doctor. I am dreading this. I don't enjoy seeing doctors in the first place and now I am submitting my most intimate parts to intense examination and study. I am mostly terrified that the doctor will find something so wrong, so irreversibly wrong, that there will be no fix. Or (worse yet) that the fix will be too far out of financial reach for us (no Rockefeller in our families). I am trying not to think about it, but my cramps keep me in-tuned to my predicament.
     It's funny how simple words of understanding from complete strangers can make me feel a little bit better. My blog was submitted to LFCA and some very kind bloggers expressed their words of sympathy with me. I truly appreciate it - I know you "get" it and your support brought the hint of a smile to my otherwise sad face. Thank you.

Let the wallowing begin

     This morning I was going to go to church. Seriously, I had every intention of getting up and going there. But, when I got up I found an unwelcome visitor. My period. I told myself to not expect anything this month, that it would be like all the other months. And I might have been able to handle it without getting my hopes up. . . . . Until the doctors office called and told me I had ovulated. Without meds. All by myself. So, I got a little crazy and let hope seep in. I knew that I shouldn't. I should assume that it means nothing. That my broken lady parts won't just miraculously, spontaneously conceive. What would make this month any different? But, I dared to believe that we might have done it all on our own. That I might go see the doctor on Tuesday and they would tell me I was finally expecting. The end of infertility and we all live happily ever after. . . .
     Alas, this is not the case. Rather, I need to call the doctors office tomorrow to tell them I started my period and will need to come in to begin the Clomid Challenge. I hate this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. And, I simply couldn't go to church like this, with red eyes and the propensity to cry at the mere suggestion of the drop of a hat. Well, that and the fact that one well-meaning friend at church told me I should think positive and every month I should plan that I will be having a baby and believe wholeheartedly that God will reward my optimism with a baby. Each month, no matter how positive or negative I feel or think, I get the same results. No baby. In church they tell me that children are a blessing. Does this mean I am being punished because we do not have a baby? Is infertility a curse? I am supposed to monthly pray to God that He will send me a baby. And I do. I pray all the time for a baby. One would think an omniscient God would get it by now, no? How long must I wait for my prayers to be answered? I get angry at God and I know that I shouldn't. . . . . .
     So, today I wallow. I curse my cramps and despise my period. I cry and try not to. I swear next month I won't care so much, but I know I will. I fight with my husband because I hurt and he shows no out-ward signs of the pain (he told me he has basically given up hope). I torture myself by looking at pictures of my friends babies on Facebook. I sit around and feel sorry for myself and see the world as ugly and gray. I wonder what it is I have done to be cursed with infertility. What it is I am doing wrong in my life that I don't deserve to have a baby of my own. My arms ache, knowing they will be empty for just another month longer. And I worry. I worry we might never get pregnant (despite everyone telling me our time will come - bullshit!). And now that we are actually seeing an infertility doctor, I worry we will not be able to afford the treatment that we/I might need (our insurance doesn't cover any infertility treatment). I want this to be over. I just want a baby! I just want my body to do what it is supposed to do - create a dam baby! Woe is me. . . . . .

God bless the broken road that is infertility

     I have been thinking lately about all that had happened in the past two years. It was late December 2008, early January 2009 when we tossed out the birth control and giddily began planning for our first baby. We even made a bet with each other on how quickly we would get pregnant. Flaco bet the first three months. I bet 6-9 months. We both lost.
     The first year I remained pretty hopeful. When Aunt Flo would show up, I would just think, "Oh well, maybe next month." Three times over the course of that first year I went to see my doctor, thinking I was preggo. Three times, after dreaded (because of the needle) blood tests, I was devastated.
     I have been charting my periods, when I am likely to be fertile, and the potential due date if I were to get pregnant. Every month, without fail. Thankfully, my doctor (I  call her my doctor, but she is actually a nurse mid-wife and I love her) told me not to worry about trying to track my ovulation with kits or by taking my temperature. So, I was saved from that particular obsession. I did pee on plenty of sticks! And I would stare at them, hoping by sheer desire to get the magic pink lines (or plus sign for some of the tests). I even threw them away and then went back to the trash, to dig them out and double check the results. It never changed.
     My doctors office had me ride out the obligatory year before we began discussing "other" options. First, we needed to discern if I ovulate due to my irregular periods. Three months of blood tests later and zero ovulation. I was so crushed by this, but not surprised. I suppose I was expecting to get the results that something was "broken" in the reproductive area. So, this past July I was supposed to start on Clomid - the go-to infertility med. But, Aunt Flo was taking her sweet old time coming. In fact, she was so late that, after peeing on another stick, they gave me progesterone to induce a period. Oh, the cramps! Then I took my first round of the Clomid.
     Initially, being on Clomid gave me hope. In my mind ovulation = baby, no? What I didn't realize was that Clomid is actually a vile poison. Now, I never loved the pill - it made me either Suicidal Sally, Angry Annie, or Eating-like-a-linebacker Edith. My body does not take kindly to the messing of the hormones. I dutifully took the 50mg of Clomid on the designated days. Then, one sunny summer afternoon I went grocery shopping. I was in the middle of the grocery store when an over-whelming wave of dizziness hit me like a ton of swirling bricks. I stopped, stood still, and held onto the shopping cart for dear life. I don't know how long I stood there, like some crazy, hyperventilating statue, but I did manage to call Flaco at work. He could not leave to come get me, so I was on my own. Swallowing the nausea rising in my throat, I quickly finished my shopping and sat in my car until the world stopped spinning like a vomit-inducing top. When I finally got home, I took a nap (I napped a lot that first week). Then, I noticed I was getting a lot of heartburn and so needed to have some Tums within reach at all times. One night, I had just laid down to go to bed, when I felt a heat coming from low in my stomach and rising up to my face. It reminded me of when you take a shot of some really strong liquor, how it burns all the way down. I broke out in a sweat and wondered what was happening to me! It was my first hot flash. My final side effect from the Clomid was the pain in my breasts, which began the first month and only ended the beginning of this month, now that I am no longer taking the medicine (well, until my period begins this week - IF, if my period begins this week! Gotta think positive, right?!). But, this is alllllllll worth it, if it means we can have a baby.
     I think the hardest thing every month, is saying good-bye to my "baby." As hard as I try, as much as I tell myself to not think about it every month, to "stop trying," every month I am crushed. Every month, I head to the commode and find that familiar and unwelcome spot on the paper. I try to remain positive and think our time will come, but I always end up sobbing and mentally un-doing all of the dreams I dared to dream since the previous month. I begin the month on a high note, thinking, "Could this finally be happening for us?" I begin to think about what it will feel like to be pregnant, how excited I will be to tell the whole world, to tell our parents (we are both the oldest in our family and the baby will be the first grandchild on both sides). I think about what labor and the delivery will be like. I write out lists of names when I am bored at work. I think about the look on my husbands face when the doctor places our baby in his arms. I think of breast feeding and investigate how to go about getting FMLA from work. Sometimes, I even imagine sending our sweet little one off to school or taking a family trip to Nicaragua. I have about 2 weeks for these dreams to take shape, to form and to start feeling real. Until . . . . they all wash down the drain with the first signs of my period. And then I have to deconstruct all those thoughts, all of those sweet dreams, and I have to say good-bye to the baby I have never even had. I wallow in self-pity for a day to a week and then climb back on the trying to conceive wagon to start this masochist cycle all over again. As the months ticked by, the dreams began to feel more and more far-fetched. Like they were for everyone else, but not for me and Flaco. The positive pregnancy test continued to allude us.
     Last month my husband got hurt at work. He cut off the top of his thumb and needed surgery to re-create the tip of his thumb with part of flesh and skin from the palm of his hand. He got hurt at the beginning of my "fertile window." I was part angry (not at him, but at the poor timing) and part depressed. Another month down the drain. I took the Clomid for nothing. Then I decided I needed to get over myself. This wasn't about me. My husband was hurt and needed time to heal. So, I tried very conscientiously to be more laid back and to not be so emotionally invested in trying to have a baby that I let everything else fall apart. So, I am trying to break this cycle. I don't let myself cry over baby commercials. I won't let myself fall apart when I see a newborn with people falling all over him/her. I don't let the news that someone I know is expecting tear me apart. I don't know if this is the right thing to do either, but I need to desensitize myself so I don't fall apart completely. Thus far, I am keeping it together. But, it's only been a little over a month. And with the information I was given earlier this week (that I ovulated all on my own), it is soooooo incredibly hard to not get a little bit excited and to begin dreaming again. . . . . .  What if . . . . . . ? At least now I have an outlet, through this blog.

Injustice

     Today I heard news about an abortion doctor in Philly who has been accused of murdering numerous babies following late-term abortions in the sixth, seventh, and eighth months. Now, my personal opinion about abortion is that it is wrong. It should only be considered in extreme cases. But, in this particular case the doctor delivered live babies - babies who could have survived except he used a scissors and severed their spinal cords.
     As a woman struggling to conceive, this seems unfathomably cruel. At six, seven, and eight months a woman can feel the life inside of her move and grow. One would hope she has bonded a little with her precious baby by this point. I just cannot understand how she could go to a clinic and snuff out that little life. There are millions of women weeping for their inability to even become pregnant. Millions of women long to feel their child kicking and moving in their wombs. Their empty arms ache as they remain barren. What a cruel world where one suffers for what another throws away!!
     Where I work there is a woman who became a first-time grandmother last March. Her beautiful granddaughter was not supposed to be born until June. She weighed just two pounds at birth. Because she was wanted, because her parents loved her, she is now eighteen pounds and thriving. She is a wonderful miracle. Babies bigger and more viable that her were killed by this diabolical doctor. I just can't wrap my brain around this. People in the media say that more affluent women cannot understand how a less fortunate, low-income woman might feel about the burden of another mouth to feed. To this I will say two things. One, even the poorest woman has access to various forms of birth control. No, none of them are 100% effective. But, that leads to number two; why wouldn't adoption be a better option than death?
     In Nicaragua, there is an alarming trend for mothers and fathers to leave their children with grandparents, siblings or other family members so they can work in Costa Rica, the US, or Spain. I know of one woman, close to my age, who left her son age seven and twin daughters age 3 with her younger sister (age 19) who also has a son age 2. She went with her mother to live and work in Spain. Three children in addition to her own son was too much for the younger sister. So, the boy is with a different aunt and the twins are with their great-grandmother, who's health is beginning to fail. These precious little girls are basically left to run around the small farming community, bouncing from their grandparent's home, to their own (empty) home, and my in-law's place. My sister-in-law told me that one time a few weeks before we were there visiting they could not find one of the twins. She was nowhere to be seen. They worried that she might have fallen in the river. After frantically looking all over for her, my sister-in-law walked about 15 minutes (after crossing the river) north and found the little girl visiting with another family because she wanted a special drink only they make. When we were there, one twin came over to the house and I was talking to her and taking her picture. Her shorts were open, so I asked her if she wanted me to close them. She told me her sister wet her pants (she didn't want to admit that she actually wet her own pants). I reported this to my mother-in-law but they had no clothing for her to wear (since their youngest daughter had just turned 15) and no one was home at the house where her fresh clothing was located. She spent the day in her soiled shorts. I tell these two stories because it breaks my heart when I think about a mother abandoning her children to earn a few extra bucks. I guess it's something of a cultural issue more than anything, but after the wait we've had (and continue to have) to conceive our own baby, I cannot imagine leaving him or her with someone else while I work thousands of miles away.
     I suppose my post today has not been the most up-lifting thing to read. I just needed to express my disgust for such an unjust world. My heart breaks for all those precious little lives who will never know love, never feel a warm embrace, who were never given a chance.

Side Note

     So, I was writing out my next post at work today (my job is not very busy most days) when I was interrupted by a phone call. It was Melanie, one of the nurses from the infertility clinic. She was calling to let me know the results of the blood test they took yesterday. According to the tests, I ovulated all by myself this month. She then said I should get my period on my own this month and to call the office if my period begins before my next scheduled appointment (both my period and the appointment are next Tuesday). She did not say, "Let us know if our services are not going to be needed." Not, "Let's wait and see what happens." No, "This is encouraging, you might have conceived on your own." Nope. She just said, "let us know if your period begins before your next appointment." Perhaps she didn't want to give me false hope. Um, I only ovulated 2 out of the 5 times I took the Clomid and NOW I do it all on my own?! Maybe she believes that only "broken" uterus' come to her office?
     Now, ordinarily I would be trying very hard to not let my dreams shoot over the moon and begin picking out maternity clothing (I've done that and dam near bought some too) or obsess about names (something I tend to do when especially un-busy at work), or try to determine the date of birth and what happened in history on that particular day (I do this nearly monthly anyway). But, this month I am just plain nervous, bordering on panicky. Why you ask? Well, last month, for Christmas, Flaco and I went to visit his family in Nicaragua. While there I picked up some hitchhikers (aka Giardia parasites - not fun, I don't recommend them). So, last week my family doctor gave me some medicine to kill the little interlopers. This medicine is not recommended to be given to a pregnant woman. The doctor asked me if there was a chance I could be pregnant. As a fertility challenged woman, I answered as honestly as possible - we've been trying for 2 years and nada, so my assumption is that there is not much of a chance I can be pregnant. Now, I am beginning to wish I had just toughed it out or asked for a medicine that a pregnant woman can take. I feel guilty and like I am a terrible mother without even knowing that I will become a mother in the next 9 months (I mean other than to our furry kids). I mean, seriously!! What are the dam odds on this one?! 24 months being unable to conceive, take an ugly pill and WHAM-OH preggo?! I know, I know, I know. I am getting ahead of myself. As my sage mother said, "You will have to cross that bridge when you get there." And, to be honest, it's not like Flaco and I had loads of sex this month. We both came home with colds and then I was sick with the Giardia. But, we did have sex. Oh, how I love to torture myself! But, I will be on pins and needles until next Tuesday when my "frienemy" is due. . . . Aye Dios mio!!

Artificial

     Today, Flaco and I had our first appointment with the Fertility Doctor. I don't know what I expected, like the doctor was going to read my chart, ask a few questions, and spit out a diagnosis/cure. The visit wasn't unpleasant until the nurse drew a whole vial of blood (I am terrified of needles - just talking about them gives me sweaty palms). The doctor asked for a few details about our medical histories (more me than Flaco) and then explained the tests they would perform (as soon as tomorrow, if there is an opening). He also indicated artificial insemination as a likely course of treatment.
     At the words "artificial insemination" my mind went straight to the cows, heifers, and brood sows we had inseminated on the farm where I grew up. This does not sound like something I am going to enjoy (I guess no one does). We will be having a baby "artificially" - or to be more precise, we will be conceiving a baby artificially. We are unable to conceive "normally" and thus, we must submit to a battery of tests, poking and prodding, and serious invasion of our privacy. I sense this is the beginning of my humiliation (to be fair, Flaco was mortified when he had to take his little swimmers in for analysis over the summer before I started the Clomid) because, well, I don't particularly like men "lady" doctors (aka OB/Gyn's). I guess it's just a quirk I have. I would much rather have a woman doctor for my feminine needs. I don't know, perhaps I am a weirdo, but I figure a woman doctor just "gets it" better because she has the same plumbing. Does a man doctor know what "the period feeling" actually feels like? Does he remember his first experience shoving a tampon "up there?" But, I digress. . . . Our Fertility Doctor is a man - very soft-spoken, very nice - but, still a man. At our next appointment he will be performing a full exam on me. Sigh. My desire for a child over-rides my sense of propriety. I suppose this is the price we pay to achieve our desired results - a baby in our arms.
     So, other than the intense testing of blood, urine, and bodies, the doctor decided we would try Clomid for one more go 'round. And we will be doing something called a "Clomid Challenge" - I don't know what this is, but it sounds like some Iron Man Triathlon to me. . . . The doctor didn't seem to give much credence to the Clomid. It is apparently not the miracle drug I thought it was. . . .
     The appointment today made me both sad and hopeful. Sad because it solidifies our condition as an infertile couple. For some reason, hearing about all the options out there and what can go awry in the complicated human body, has made me feel like our struggle to become pregnant was always doomed and futile - like trying to bail water out of the Titanic with a thimble. But, I also feel hopeful. There are still many options open for us at this time and we will actually find our what is wrong with me (I mean fertility-wise) and I am hopeful this is something that can be "fixed."
     So, we soldier on. Bring on the poking and prodding. And hopefully, fill our arms with a blessing from God - our baby.
   

I see babies - they're everywhere

I have heard that just because you think you are seeing more babies when you are trying to conceive, does not mean there are actually more babies around you; you simply notice them more due to your current situation. Well, this might be true. But, then there is reality. In the two years my husband and I have been trying to conceive, 13+ women have had babies. These are women I know either as a simple acquittance or a close friend. Initially, I was excited for these women. "Oh, wow! That's great! Ooo!! Oh, I bet I am next!" Eventually, I became more alarmed at my barren womb and less excited to hear about another woman getting what I wanted with all my heart. "She is pregnant?! What?!? Why not me?!" Now, it is to the point that the pain (if I let it) sinks me into a two day self-pity funk. I feel like (most days) I am in a better place emotionally when it comes to the landmines of everyday life and procreating. I feel like I have come to terms a bit more with being fertility challenged. Maybe this is because the cursed poison (aka Clomid) is no longer coursing through my veins. But, mostly I believe it comes from my slight acceptance of the fact that my plans are not yet God's plans (i.e. I will not be having my first child before I am 30 as I had planned). Yet, sometimes when I am weak, when the near-impenetrable fortress I have built around my heart slips a bit,  I find myself sobbing at diaper commercials, tearing up over the Clear Blue Easy commercial, crying at the sight of a daddy holding his precious baby. Just like a poisoned-tip arrow, these otherwise simple events shoot straight to my heart and burying an evil burr of jealousy. These are the things I have learned about myself that I don't particularly like. I should be unaffected. I should be grounded in my simple belief of the Lord's will working in my life. I should realize that "it will happen" if I "stop trying" or "just relax". But, I can't yet. I am working to be stronger and change the things in myself that I do not like. And, someday I will look back on this time and see how far I have come . . .

This is our story

I am beginning this blog after reading so many other blogs about other couples dealing with infertility. I feel like I have so many pent up emotions about this issue and I am not ready to really have face-to-face conversations about it, yet. Mostly, I am very weepy and sometimes angry. I am finding there are things I don't like about myself and how I react to the news of friends who have become pregnant while we've been "trying." But, I am also learning how resilient I am and how much I want to change. I cannot promise I will not be sarcastic, weepy, jealous, and self-deprecating among other things. For this I will not apologize. I am writing for myself and if others stumble across this and decide to follow along, they do so at their own risk! Also, because I am not ready to reveal to the world all the pain I have experienced in the past two years, I would like to try to stay anoymous (or as much as possible, given I am writing and posting in a public setting). If you know me or think you do, keep it to yourself, please.