Breaking Radio Silence

I may have to start using this blog again...but not necessarily for the reasons most infertility blogs get revived.

There's a problem, though. Several of my readers are people who know me and my family personally. With very few exceptions, I don't want these readers to see what I'll be posting here.

I could just go and start a new blog - but the same people would eventually link to me, and the same readers would eventually find me, and with all the relevant background information I have to post it will be pretty obvious who I am.

I could password-protect this blog - but I want to leave it open to random readers, people who do not know me and likely will never find out (nor care) who I am.

So instead I think I need to just operate on trust. I am going to trust that people who know me (and, I think, consider me a friend) will respect my request:

If you know me in person, if you would recognize me walking down the street, if you could name either of my children or either of my parents - if any of those apply to you - please stop reading.

Anyone who is an exception to this rule will be contacted personally. If you are uncertain whether this request applies to you, feel free to email and ask. I will answer directly.

If you don't feel you can respect this request...well, I can't help that. But at least have the consideration to never comment, never discuss what you read here with anyone else who knows me, and never let on that you've been reading. Tough challenge, eh? Probably easier to just not read.

I'll give this a few days to settle, I think. I have other things to write anyway.

Loot

Holy crap, I think we're having a couple of babies around here.

Ezra wanted to bow to the superstition of not buying any baby stuff before the babies are born, or at least not having anything at home. I'm not one for superstition, period (in fact, I'm pretty sure that following superstitious practices runs counter to Jewish law, but that's a post for another day), but for much of the pregnancy I didn't argue. He agreed to order the car seats, a double Snap-N-Go, and a co-sleeper far enough ahead of time that we could be sure to have them here before the kids came home. We ordered furniture such that it would be ready by...oh, soon-ish, I think. And I thought I would be content with that compromise, and letting Ezra and his parents stock up on everything else from clothes to wipes to receiving blankets while I was still in the hospital with our day-old kidlets.

Oh, but I did not believe in The Power Of Nesting.

And, really, I'm going to blame it on Ezra's sister, because she talked me through most of my Amazon shopping spree. So by the time the last of the packages arrives later this week, we will have: a dozen side-snap t-shirts (half with long sleeves, half with short), ten receiving blankets, sixteen washcloths, a few hooded towels (those things are expensive, yo), a bunch of burpcloths, and...oh, I can't remember exactly what else. More sheets for the co-sleeper, nail clippers, stuff like that. When he heard I was also ordering some pacifiers and bottles, Ezra knew I'd gone off the deep end. Which is probably why he didn't protest too much...there's no telling what a nesting pregnant woman will do if you ruffle her feathers.

But he's more upset by having the baby stuff around than I realized. So before he gets home from work this evening I will try to get everything packed away into the corner of a not-often-used room (not the room-that-may-have-babies-in-it-soon). And then he doesn't have to see it all and start worrying about how he'll feel if the worst happens and he comes home to pace packed with baby paraphenelia. And I'll peek in on it whenever I want that little lift in my heart that says Chances are, the babies will come home, safe and sound. And soon. And you're going to have to figure out how to adjust the harnesses on those seats.

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There's also the homemade loot. I love to cook, but even moreso, I love to eat what I cook. Unfortunately, my urge to spend hours in the kitchen kind of fell away early in pregnancy, and I haven't fully regained it. Still, by doubling recipes and socking away leftovers that would otherwise have had an encore dinner presentation, I managed to fill our freezer with the following homemade foodstuffs:

• two quarts French onion soup


• a gallon of vegetaian chili, divided into smaller portions


• three loaf-pan sized vegetable lasagnas (each is two dinner servings and one lunch)


• a few pounds of brisket, plus nearly a quart of leftover gravy


• almost two quarts minestrone


• three squash kugels (8x8)


• one yerushalmi kugel (8x8)


• several smaller portions of broccoli-spinach kugel


• six cups roasted pureed squash (in case I need to make...more kugel?)


• three loaves pumpkin bread


• one raspberry-chocolate pound cake, and


• eleven loaves of whole wheat challah

There's also about ten pounds of frozen stew meat and an assortment of ready-made foods that found their way onto the shelves. I'm still looking for the partridge and the pear tree; I think they're hiding behind the chili.

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Last but not least, I bought myself a little something for the hospital. I'm not entirely sure I'll be covering my hair during labor, but I will definitely want something to wear in the postpartum room, and my usual cotton berets are not the best for sleeping (or even wearing all day while awake, since the roll-brims that do such a good job of keeping them in place can start feeling tight enough to give me a headache). So on the spur of the moment last week I got in touch with Miriam at Heavenward Designs, and within a few days I received this beautiful (and comfortable!) snood in the mail. I'm generally not a snood person, but I'm very excited to wear this one...

How I Learned To Stop Worrying and...oh, who am I kidding?

Based on your responses, I've decided to write somethig combining the first and fourth options, with a promise (such as it is) to write about going to the mikvah after I actually go (tomorrow). Fair enough? I should warn you, though, that those of you who are infertile may not want to read this post because of all of my stupid pregnancy complaints, and those of who you are pregnant may not want to read this post because of the very scary worries. So, really, nobody's going to read the post, but I'll write it anyway.

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Pregnancy is full of things to occupy your mind. That's putting it mildly...it's more like full of things for you to completely obsess over every minute of every day, and if you want to preserve even one shred of your sanity, you need to learn to let go of your worries and smile (as best you can) through your pains. I'm never going to completely stop worrying, but I can usually get myself to stop complaining. So what follows is a short list of my little complaints, and the corresponding pep talks:

Can't sleep at night? Be grateful you're not working anymore, and can nap at any time of day if you so desire.

Peeing every hour on the dot, including just when you've fallen asleep? That's because you have a healthy little baby perched head-down on your bladder. What more could you want? Be happy that you aren't on hospital bedrest and forced to pee into a bedpan.

Achy back? Well, what about your friend SL, who suffered tremendously from back pain even before her first pregnancy? Shortly after giving birth, it got so much worse that she was given strict instructions not to get pregnant again. Ever. Now, a few years later, they are expecting twins...via a gestational surrogate. This is trly wonderful...but she will never be pregnant again, and that is a real loss with real grief. I just need a warm compress and maybe a massage.

Swollen ankles? It's not preeclampsia. We just proved that. Wear the big comfy shoes when you have to stad, and prop up your legs the rest of the time. Whiny brat.

But twins are going to be so much work! Oh, suck it. You're fulfilling the dream of (almost) every infertile couple: an uncomplicated twin pregnancy. Two for the price (quite literally) of one. No need to go through any treatments ever again just to avoid having an only child.

Can't go everywhere and do everything you used to do? Could be worse. Remember that bit about hospital bedrest? That's not you. So, again: suck it.

(I would make a great drill sergeant, wouldn't I? Okay, not so much.)

And of course, with any pregnancy-related complaint, I try to remind myself how much worse I would feel if I were not pregnant. The aches in my back or the heavy feeling in my swollen feet or even the constant bruise-like aching in my sides is absolutely nothing in comparison to the emotional anguish of finding out that my ovaries, once again, did not respond to a course of Clomid. That's just Clomid, people! I can't even fathom how I would have reacted if our first Follistim IUI had failed, let alone a full-blown IVF cycle. I really don't know how so many of you do it, and then get back up to do it again.

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As for the worries...well, there's the usual set of legitimate worries: What if I can't make enough breastmilk? What if I can, but my kids won't latch? What if one of them develops pneumonia when s/he's two weeks old? And so on. But then there's the set of worries that everyone brushes off with, "Oh, that almost never happens!" Except...it does. And I know it does. I've had the privilege, as it were, of knowing some of Those People firsthand.

Twenty-eight weeks is a big milestone. Thirty is another, and then every week thereafter. I'm just about twenty-four hours away from being considered 36 weeks pregnant...and in twin terms, that's pretty good. Hell, even in singleton terms it's nothing to sneeze at. By thirty-six weeks, the lungs are developed and have plenty of surfactant (though a little more couldn't hurt). The main benefits (to the babies) of continued gestation over the next few weeks will be some weight gain and an improvement in sucking reflexes. So, in (almost) everyone's book, nothing bad can happen now.

Perhaps they haven't heard of stillbirth.

It's not as rare as you think. The stillbirth rate in the United States is about 1 in every 115 deliveries after 24 weeks gestation. Granted, we are well past 24 weeks at this point, but there's no magical cutoff. Babies die during labor. Babies also, often without warning, die near term. Stillbirth seemed like one of those "it doesn't happen to anyone you know" things, until it did.

In the fall of 2005, we were at a Shabbat meal with a lovely couple from our synagogue. She was largely, radiantly pregnant. About thirty-eight weeks along, if I recall correctly. I remember being somewhat uncomfortable at that meal, even though we barely discussed her pregnancy, because we were finally coming to terms with our need to find an RE and start using some real fertility drugs (instead of just metformin). I had no way of knowing then that this couple had been through their share of fertility treatments to get to the point of radiant waddling (though maybe I should have figured it out).

Two weeks later, we were hosting another family for Shabbat dinner in our home. Two parents and three children ranging in age from eight to seventeen. I can't recall exactly how it came up, but over the course of the meal one of the parents told us that the child of this radiant, glowing couple had been stillborn. That was enough to numb me for a moment, but then the father proceeded to explain to his youngest child just what that meant. "It's when the baby was growing okay inside the mommy, but then something happens and the baby is dead when it comes out." I don't think he said much more than that, but in my head the explanation took half an hour at least. The words echoed all through the rest of dinner, and dessert, and our polite lingering chatter. And as we cleared the table. And as I got ready for bed. And as I cried myself to sleep, because...that's a pain I never want to experience.

I don't think I've spoken to either of the bereaved parents since. We hadn't really met them before the lunch we shared, and our community is large enough that they probably don't even notice our not-talking to them. I have no idea how they get through any day without tossing back a full bottle of painkillers and a vodka chaser. I don't know how they can still smile at young children who carelessly bump into their legs while running through the Kiddush after services every Shabbat morning...or how it is that they manage to come to services at all. I would be angry at God beyond belief. I am angry at God, on their behalf. And every time I see this woman's face, two thoughts run through my mind: "May you always find comfort and strength," and, "Please, spare me her sorrow, for that is a test I would not survive.

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I wanted to end the post there, but I just came across more disturbing news. A woman on a message board I frequent went into labor about a week ago, at term. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. About a day later, he stopped breathing. He was resusitated, but in the interim suffered so much permanent damage that he eventually died a couple of days ago. Again, I wish the mother comfort and strength...and again, I cannot fathom how I would deal, nor do I ever want to find out.

The fear never ends.

Oops! I Did It Again

Two and a half weeks? Sorry. Didn't mean to leave y'all hanging. (You know, the four of you who still read this thing.) I'm still here, still pregnant. I've had a whole bunch of contemplative posts rolling around in my head, and I guess that in the process of half-writing all of them (internally), it somewhat slipped my mind that I hadn't bothered to actually post anything. It's too much to put all in one post, and I don't think I can live up to a promise to get them all out there, so let's vote. Which of the following topics would you most like me to post about by, say, Wednesday evening?

• Why, even at 35 weeks and change, I'm still worried about losing these babies


• Going to the mikvah in the ninth month of pregnancy


• Doula + epidural: are we crazy, or do we just like to burn money?


• Laundry list of complaints, and how I get myself to shut up about (almost) every one


• Whacked-out priorities, or: why my children will be sleeping in the living room


• Erm...you mean they don't come with off buttons?

Pick one or two. I'll try to get something up by Wednesday evening. And I have another OB appointment tomorrow, so there will (I hope) be an update on the medical front within twenty-four hours or so...

Still here...

It's been...two and a half months? Almost three months? Whatever...it's been a long time. And somewhere in there I decided to switch to Blogger Beta, which completely messed up my template (if anyone can troubleshoot that annoying white bar separating the two parts of my backgroud picture, I'd be eternally grateful...oh dear, it's even worse in IE...help!) and made it a bit of a pain for me to comment on other Blogger blogs...so my presence has kind of faded from the infertility blogosphere. Though I've been reading, really I have.

Y'all missed most of my second trimester. What's happened? Lots of ultrasounds. Lots of images of two healthy babies. Good numbers for my AFP screening. Weight gain finally on track (though I actually lost almost two pounds last week, which was a little disturbing). The return of my appetite, including my ability to eat poultry and beef. Many, many, many cute kicks.

I don't remember, did I mention here the first time I felt movement? It was at 14 weeks on the nose, which is very early, but I'm quite certain that's what I felt. Tiny, gentle, fluttery taps. It doesn't feel like that any more, though...now it's all thumps and jabs and the occasional rotating lump. I'm not yet sure whether it's just baby parts I'm feeling, or perhaps balls and the like bouncing off the walls of my uterus-cum-squash-court. The kidlets are both oriented with their heads toward the lower left (stay head down, darlings!) and their feet toward the upper right, so the strongest movements all come from the same area. I expect to be nicely bruised by the time this pregnancy is through.

Oh, sciatica. Not terrible yet, not contant yet, but clearly nerve-pinching rather than just random lower back and leg pain. Though, fret not, I have that too.

A few days here and there when I overdid it and wound up with a bunch of (harmless, it seems) contractions. I have to remember that I can't spend five hours cooking without a break for so much as a glass of water.

Oh yeah - I'm not employed anymore. But it's more or less by choice, and not related to any health complications with the pregnancy. It just gives me more time to cook, you see. And to stare at the mountain of boxes in the future nursery (did I just say that?) and think about how nice it would be if I sorted through them and threw stuff away. And to nap.

And, no, we're not going to talk about the stress. Its nature has changed, but it has certainly not gone away. And that's all I'm going to say about it.

Go ahead, have your parades. I'm back, I think. I'll try to blog somewhat regularly at least through the end of the pregnancy. I wouldn't mind terribly if those of you with blogs would post a little mention that I've started writing again, or at least put me back on your sidebars if you've taken me off. That would be even better than a parade, maybe.

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The comments problem should be fixed. The layout problem, obviously, is not.

I should tell you I'm disasterI forget how to begin it

No, I haven't been posting much lately. The kidlets, as far as we know, are fine. Ezra is quite possibly the most wonderful person in the world. I'm not suffering from the pregnant-after-IF clamming-up guilt that's been the talk of our corner of the blogosphere lately. I've been distracted and occupied by another major source of stress in my life for the past few weeks, one which isn't going to go away and is probably only going to become more stressful. How stressful? Well, last week I told Electric Lady that I was doing the work of three people at my job, and would be doing so for a month...and then I told her that this was far from being the big source of stress in my life. Pales in comparison. Not even in the same ballpark. So that's why I've been quiet.

And the first person who tells me to "just relax" gets a tenaculum in the cervix.

Kick Me

Today after work I went to get my hair cut. Somehow the shampooist and I got onto the topic of shared household duties in a marriage. It wasn't the best conversation ever, especially since I don't feel very chatty when my head is back over a sink, but I managed to keep it going. Then she piped up with: "So, do you have any kids?"

Oh, that's not the worst of it. See, the rest of the conversation went like this:

Shampooist: So, do you have any kids?
Robbie: (quietly, politely) No.
Shampooist: Oh, that's good.
Robbie: [stunned silence]
Shampooist: When I get married, I'm totally not going to have kids right away. I want to have a long time to just enjoy being married, y'know?
Robbie: (in her head) ohpleasephpleaseohplease just rinse out the damn conditioner already and let me leave
Robbie: (out loud) Uh-huh.

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We are now having second thoughts on this IUI vs. on-time-for-wedding-pictures thing. It's enough to make me hope that I trigger Thursday and ovulate on Shabbat, since at this point that's an easier decision to make (no IUI). I've considered calling the groom and/or the bride's sister to ask for their sense on what the bride would say. Because, truth be told, if it were my wedding and she were in this situation, I'd tell her to get her feet into the stirups pronto and to stay there until the sperm were all happily ensconsed in her uterus. And I'd be right pissed to find out she'd skipped an IUI and not told me about it. At least, I like to think I would.

Drowning

I went to the mikvah this week, for the first time since we started actual fertility treatment. (I don't count the metformin.) I'm usually very matter-of-fact about my preparation and tevilah; I think the mitzvah and associated hstory are beautiful in theory, but somewhat burdensome in practice. This time, even though I was running around from place to place all day and was stressed (and hungry) by the time I made it to the mikvah, I had resolved to make some kind of effort to infuse this immerision with a level of spirituality.

And then I get there, and discover that the attendant on duty is pregnant. Quite visibly so.

Okay, deep breath, I can handle this. She escorts me to my prep room. I turn on the faucet to fill the tub, remove my makeup, get undressed. Give myself a solid look in the mirror and slip into the pleasantly warm water. Play with the washcloth for a few minutes. Try to relax. Maybe I even talk to God a little, but it's hard to tell, since God's not talking back. I slowly wash each part of my body, concentrating on the skin and trying not to think of the malfunctioning organs beneath the surface. I contemplate the red dots scattered across my belly; it seems that all healing must come from without, not within. I stand up, shower, rinse my hair well and comb out the tangles. I give my feet a careful once-over, examine myself in the mirror, and look myself in the eye. This can work. This isn't a failure; it's a new chance.

I call for the mikvah attendant. As I wait for her to arrive, I sit back down, rest my forehead in my hands, and focus on the good things to come that evening: a warm dinner and a kiss from my husband (probably not in that order). The attendant knocks on the door connecting my prep room to the nearest immersion pool. I focus on her eyes. She warns me that the water here is on the cool side and asks me whether I'd like to go across the hall where the pool is a little warmer. I decline, thinking that the cooler water may be just the kind of refreshment I need. I've entered on the far side of the room from the stairs down into the water, and so the attendant and I have to swap places along the narrow floorspace.

The mikvah lady gestures at her belly and giggles: "This gets harder as I get bigger." A look of shock, I'm sure, falls across my face, and I bite my lower lip before I can start crying. Silently, staring at the floor, I hold out my hands for her to inspect and slip my feet out of their paper slippers for her approval. I turn, remove my robe, step into the water, and immerse in my tears.

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This morning I had my fourth ultrasound and blood draw of the week, which makes five in eight days for this cycle (and we're not done yet). You'll be disappointed, but not probably not surprised, to hear that I still have no measurable follicles on either side. The promising 10 mm buds on the right are still just over 10 mm. I'm sure my estrogen level is equally pathetic. And I'm sure I'll be back at the clinic bright and early on Sunday for another peep show.

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Update (1:45 PM): Nurse Space Cadet this time. E2 is up to 65.3; LH and progesterone are still low. Continue at 100 units tonight and tomorrow. Back in at 7:15 AM Sunday. I convinced her to schedule my Tuesday appointment now, so I managed to snag a 7:15 slot for that day as well. Nurse Spacey also said that they would give this cycle "another couple of weeks" before calling it a bust...

Two, two, two jabs in one!

One day, that is. And two pregnancy announcements. From two close friends. Admittedly, one of them recently had a miscarriage, and has not heard the heartbeat yet for this pregnancy...but she gave me the news with her almost-two-year-old toddler running around the room, and prefaced by, "Well, since you've just given me all your fertility updates, let me give you mine." (And shortly after she had asked whether Ezra and I have considered adoption. Adoption! Why didn't I think of that? it's so easy!) I know she's nervous as all hell about this pregnancy, but it still stung a bit. And then, after I got home, friend #2 called to say they're expecting their first in October. Friend #2 also knows about our infertility

I am truly happy for both couples involved, but it stung a bit. In honor of the news, we are putting a new outgoing message on our answering machine:

Hi! You've reached the Barren Household. To tell us that you're expecting a child, press 1. To commiserate about infertility because it took you three months to conceive said child, press 2. If you think you are suffering fom secondary infertility because your first child has just celebrated his first birthday, and you're not yet pregnant again, press 3. If you'd like to share your advice on how to conceive, including basal temperature charting, OPKs, sexual position, and bedtime cocktails, press 4. If you want to know why we don't "just adopt," press 5. If you want to complain about your own children, offer them to us for a week, or tell us that we should enjoy this childfree time while it lasts, kindly hang up and go step into traffic. We will return your call as soon as possible, or never.

(with many thanks to persephone fo her help with the answering machine message)

Treasures

This past Shabbat, at the kiddush after moning services, I held a friend's baby. Not for a minute or two or five, but for a good half-hour, walking around the room, giving the mom a chance to eat with her hands free and happily shmoozing with a bunch of people. I laughed off a good number of comments: "Hey, he looks good on you!" "You hold that baby so naturally!" "I'm gone for three weeks and come back to THIS?" The kid cooed and giggled and pulled at my necklace and generally did all those cue things babies do. I joked that I was going to bundle him under my coat and take him home (but return him to his parents in time for his bar mitzvah of course - that's one party I'm not paying for if I don't have to).

It all would have been a very pleasant experience, but for one thing. As she handed the baby over to me, the mother, who knows that we are just starting to deal with our IF problems and was infertile herself for some time, whispered, "It's a segula,* you know. For having a baby."

Yes, I know. I was tempted to respond, "I hear sex is a segula for getting pregnant, too, but so far it hasn't worked for me." I bit my tongue, though, and smiled and took the baby from her arms, because, dammit, I wanted to hold him anyway, because he's CUTE. As for the segula - as far as I'm concerned, it's superstition, plain and simple, and rarely if ever has any place in Judaism. I know segulas make other people happy, and it's not my place to tell them it's "wrong" to think that way, but I must say I wish they'd stop trying to impose all this segula-ness on me. Particularly when "they" is someone who has been in my shoes, who must know that even the most well-intentioned comments can be surprisingly wounding, and that you never can tell how something will sound in someone else's mind. Or maybe I just give other people too much credit. Maybe she just assumes that whatever comforted her soul will comfort mine as well.

* segula - lit., "treasure" - an action or behavior, like wearing the now-trendy red string kabbalah bracelet, that is supposed to have the power to bring about a certain effect