The Deafening Sound of Nothing

You know, I can track the length of my fertility battle back to a phone conversation in January of 2015.  My friend Jennifer and I were getting online to buy early bird tickets to Outside Lands in August.  I was all, “Let’s definitely get the tickets, but just a heads up I’ll probably be super pregnant by then, so I may need to sell mine.”  So confident!  So optimistic and excited! Even if it took me a couple tries to get pregnant, I would still be too far along to dance and run from stage to stage, so I was certain my festival days would hit the fritz.  But fuck it, I’ll buy the ticket JUST IN CASE.

I went to Outside Lands that year.  And you know what, I went the year after that as well.  And you know what, I could’ve gone this year too. 

Cause I’m still super NOT pregnant.  100%, A+, highly UN-pregnant.

How did this happen?  How have I wound up with nothing?  IVF #4 just ended with the deafening sound of emptiness.  We did not produce any viable embryos.  Nothing to send for testing.  Nothing to transfer.  Nothing to freeze.  Just, nothing.    And there is no sound more deafening in the world than nothingness. 

I can’t get my head around it, this nothingness.  I find myself thinking often about that phone call in early 2015.  I remember what it felt like to be so hopeful, to be so sure that it would work.  Calculating potential due dates with each insemination.  Taking notes on stroller types.  Printing out “Top 10 must read books for expecting moms.”  Making a “Pregnancy” bookmark folder with all of the online parenting resources I might need.  I think about it now and I don’t have the slightest idea how to reconcile that optimism with today’s results.  I am finding myself, more often than not, completely blank.

I constantly fight.  I fight off feeling stupid for thinking it would work so easily.  I fight Anger and Bitterness screaming at me that hard work doesn’t pay off.  I fight Jealousy pointing at all the babies and children that aren’t mine.  I fight a suffocating feeling of Failure and Inadequacy.  I fight the Sadness that wants to be alone with me, so we can listen to the nothingness in my head.  And I fight Perspective, who reminds me constantly that I am not alone, that many have it worse than I do, that I have so much to be thankful and grateful for...but to whom I can sometimes only reply that I just feeling mother fucking sad. 

Mostly, I am afraid that the emotional heaviness and anger that have crept in to my life have found a permanent home, and this is just who I am now.  That my enthusiastic, hopeful, optimistic heart has gone dark.  But I can’t let that happen.

So I fight, and sometimes I win. Sometimes I lose miserably.  But when I win, I know there is hope.  There are still options.  Still things to try.  I have the most amazing friends & family, a heart full of love, a happy home. I have a lot to fight for.  Even when I cry, I can still laugh at a picture of Hank** through the tears.  I feel a lot of hope in that.  And I wanted to share my feelings.  Because frankly, googling “how fertility treatment has changed you” wasn’t really yielding helpful results.  Because, really, doesn’t the Internet always just make you feel worse?  So this is where I stand now.  A bit beaten up.  Convincing myself I am not defeated, and searching for happy places to make me smile as I head to the plate for another chance.  I don’t even know if the pitcher will pitch to me.  But if they do, I swear a homerun is coming. 

**Follow Hank: @mybestfriendhank.  You will not regret it.

  

Whack-a Mole, Lunatic Edition

Where to start?

Hey people. Hi. Sooooo….guess I haven’t written in a while? (I sound like Olaf from “Frozen” when I read this to myself.  That makes sense to me, but probably only also to Marlie.  Well, it’s a sheepish tone, I’ll tell you that.)  “Hi Sven’s family, nice tooo meeeeeet youuuuuu.”

Anyway.

Hey, I’m no Hemingway.  Did you know that Hemingway used to write 500 words a day?  Or was it 5,000? Well it was a damn lot, I’ll tell you that, and it was 500 (or 5,000) more words than I’ve written since my last post.  And he still kept up a vigorous business of drinking through Paris streets and camping at the base of tall mountains.  Come on, man!  I digress.  I just mean to say, I’m aware that most writers…write.  Even when they have nothing to say.  Especially when!

So I’ve perfected the Art of Anti-Hemingwayism.  (aka “Not Writing”)  I kept waiting for THE GREAT UPDATE before writing, but I have to say, the whole Baby Battle has turned into a game of whack-a-mole, Lunatic edition. (That’s the edition where, just as you get the hang of whacking the moles, they add more holes – but now with baboons and blobfish and that spitting dinosaur from Jurassic Park that steal your mallet and just laugh at you with ugly animal faces). 

Except the blobfish.  He can’t laugh.  He just stares at me, blobbing.

So, my Anti-Hemingwayism can go the way of the dodo, and I’ll be a mature adult with perspective (it’s hard! <whine>) and say that, while I don’t have THE GREAT UPDATE, I do have AN update.  After almost 4 months since my last post, I’m still on IVF #3.  I had my Egg Retrieval right before Christmas, and after some testing, and re-testing, and waiting, I am left with ONE embryo who is frozen in happy lullaby while my body prepares to transfer it.  And my body is NOT BEHAVING. I’ve started, stopped and restarted a couple different hormone regimens and now, at 5 estrogen pills a day, I’ll just tell you that if my next appointment doesn’t show the right results I am going to HULK SMASH the exam room, wield the ultrasound wand like Don Quixote, take ALL the pink starburst in the office FOR MYSELF and throw the yellows and oranges at the nurses’ station. 

Wait.  Mature adult.  So yeah, I’m fucking tired.  And I am SO SICK OF WAITING.  I’m just sick of thinking about it.  Sick of talking about it. I’m sick of putting everything else on hold while I WAIT…while I try to steel myself to handle more unknowns and to be strong and optimistic, which feels like a full time, conscious, exhausting effort. This has become so all-encompassing.  My friends and family have been SO amazing, listening to me talk about this for over 2 years, I PROMISE when I eventually have a baby, they will not only be a superhero (no, really, this baby better be able to fly, or have x-ray vision, or create chocolate cake from thin air), but they will be so kind and loving and grateful to you all, who took care of their mama when she was trying to whack-a-dinosaur.

I’m just realizing that the blobfish would be the worst creature to put into whack-a-mole cause he doesn’t move.  He would just pop up, slowly and blobbily with his squishy nose, and when you whack him he just smooshes.  But I guess at this point the baboon stole my mallet anyway and Jurassic Park dinosaur paralyzed me with his spit, so I have to just watch Blobfish ooze onto the board.  See what I’m dealing with?

Love to you all!

Fertility warriors:

17 eggs retrieved

10 mature

7 fertilized

3 survived to Day 5 blast and sent for testing - AA, BA, BC (BA and BC were actually Day 6)

AA and BA: chromosomal abnormalities

BC: chromosomally sound, and frozen

Feel free to message me if curious about estrogen/progesterone cycles.

Pink Starburst, Trump and Wordsmithery

What a shit show of a week.  I am truly in awe of it.   On a day that we mourn the loss a true Wordsmith, Mr. Leonard Cohen, I find myself wishing I could yield his superhero powers of wordsmith-iness.  Wordsmith-osity?  Wordsmithery!  He was a master of putting complex, and often dark, emotions into beautiful poetry, and I would be remiss in not mentioning that he's on my mind as I wade through my own attempt.

When I wrote about my Baby Battle back in early September, the outpouring was utterly overwhelming.  I felt instantly healed by the number of people who shared support and encouragement and I want to thank everyone who reached out; you have no idea what a positive impact you made.  Unfortunately I suffered an upsetting setback this week and while I didn't plan to share it here, publicly, I remembered everything that was said to me in September about how comforting it felt to bring this subject to light, and I started to feel an emotional obligation to hold to that.

I just wrapped up IVF #2, which unsuccessful results.  It was a bumpy IVF, but I had a solid chance in the end.  I even got a sonogram with 2 tiny white dots from my embryo transfer.  DOT BABIES!  But after the dreaded 2 week wait, in which I pretended to already be pregnant so that Matt would buy me chocolate and I wouldn't have to clean the litter box, I got confirmation Monday evening that my positive pregnancy results were a chemical pregnancy.  My little cells implanted enough to produce the hormone, but they didn't stick, and I would miscarry by the end of the week.  I met with the doctor immediately to come up with a plan for IVF #3, and she spent the first 15 minutes walking to all of the candy bowls in the office to find me some pink Starbursts. So, every cloud...

I was devastated.  I FELT pregnant.  I was sure it had worked.  I was going to get to celebrate pregnancy through the holidays!  My doctor was so supportive while we waited for my 2nd test to show if my pregnancy was going to stick, and I SO appreciate her, but I still felt like the happiness rug was yanked right out from under me.  Matt and I were both sure it had worked this time.  We were trying so hard to find the light, to stay positive, to rally ourselves for the next attempt.  The few friends and family I shared with were AMAZING and loving and encouraging, and I was trying climb.

And then Tuesday night's election happened.

Like many of my friends and co-workers here in Los Angeles, and half of you out there in this beautiful country, I have felt confused, scared, appalled, nervous, angry, upset...and lost.  I feel like Trump's victory has cast a frightening shadow that I don't yet fully understand or comprehend.  In the aftermath, I've been grief-stricken at some of the violent words and acts already committed, and have felt embarrassingly naive for believing we weren't as angry and hateful a people as Trump banked on.

As the week moved along, I began to feel like the sadness from my miscarriage and Trump's victory were strangely becoming intertwined in my mind, and I didn't understand why it felt like they were coming from the same place in my heart.  This morning I realized it's because both are challenging me to find hope when I feel like there is none.  I am striving to find hope that Trump will answer the needs of this country above his own, even though I'm terrified of his intentions.  I am striving to find hope that I will hold my baby in my arms one day, even though my 8 unsuccessful procedures leave me terrified that I will only ever receive bad news.  But I have to hope, because I won't be able to move forward otherwise.

<This is where I delete a novel-length tangent where I attempt to hope that no matter who we voted for, we are all in this together and are all hoping for the same thing, which is to prosper in this great nation that we love and to continue to the freedoms and privileges it allows us but keep failing because I'm afraid it might not be true, but that is the point of this blog post, that we have to hope even though we are afraid.  Could use some of that Cohen wordsmithery right here>

Also, it's a fuck of a week when you are relating your miscarriage to the election of Donald Trump to the Presidency, am I wrong?!

Also, a huge THANK YOU to our Veterans, to whom we owe an immeasurable amount of gratitude and respect for continuing to fight for this beautiful country and the freedoms we hold so dear.  We owe you more than we all realize.

Also, RIP Leonard Cohen.

For my fellow fertility warriors:
IVF #2 - Stim w/GonalF (300 ml) and Menopur (2 powder/1 liquid) & Cetrotide, HCG trigger - 11 eggs retrieved, 4 mature, 2 fertilized with ICSI, PGS cancelled. Day 3 fresh transfer, MC 4w4d.
Changes made for IVF #3: Stim same, add Lupron to HCG trigger, drop ICSI, PGS (hopefully), then frozen transfer

Be On Your Toes, Angels

Services have just wrapped up in Atlanta for my beautiful Aunt Jane, who passed away suddenly last week.  And while I hope that the heavens prove a peaceful and happy place for her, I also grapple with the selfish sadness and fear of finality that death brings.  And curious observation of what is left behind.  I suppose that's what a legacy is...the emotions that swim in the wake of a departing ship.

In general, I wasn't very close with my Aunt Jane.  I saw her much more often when I was a kid, and I thought she was so beautiful.  SO smart.  Really clever and, above all, so funny.  She amused Marlie and I - and was amused BY Marlie and I - constantly.  I remember her dry, quippy humor and sarcastic observation so well that I can summon the sound of her voice and the look on her face just like that <snap finger>.  Her short, feathered blonde hair and that crooked mouth that barely moved when she spoke...just like my Grandpa's.  I have such vivid memories of visiting her in my Grandparents' living room that they may well have happened yesterday.

People used to tell Marlie and I all the time that we looked like Aunt Jane, jokingly saying we could be triplets.  Though, in a heartwarming way, I can't say for sure now if it was "people" who said that, or just my Aunt Jane herself.  But my cousin Tony called the three of us Barbie Dolls, so at least one other person kept that joke going. :)

My Aunt Jane's legacy is a bit tricky, as my distance from her throughout my adult life leaves me drawing from a shallow well of direct and personal memories which, lucky for me, are happy and admirable.  But for my parents, and my Uncle, that well is much, much deeper.  I know that my Aunt Jane is not the perfect person my 8 year-old mind cemented into my memory.  How could anyone live up to an 8 year-old's vision?  So much of my experience with her life is indirect.  I know she could be as troubled and difficult as she was intelligent and witty.  As much a good conversationalist as a pain in the ass.  So on this day, I toe the line of holding my own personal memories dear, while appreciating the whole of the woman I barely knew, who was a daughter, a sister, a partner, and a friend to many.  The Barbie Doll, and the Human.

As my sister said the other day, alarm bells are going off in Heaven. Look out everyone, you've got an adventure on your hands.  Grab your wits and your smarts, cause Aunt Jane is going to find Grandpa and seek out some debate.  Better be on your toes, angels.