Of Sex and Paranoia

It’s confessions like this one that make me glad I’m anonymous on this blog. Here it is: I haven’t had sex with my husband since we started IVF 3.0 back in March. It’s June now. That’s a LONG time.

Maybe this is ok for some people, but Mr. T and I have always had an active sex life. Even infertility didn’t put too much of a damper on it- we went from happily “trying” to have a baby, to finding out that the only way we were going to have a baby would be to mix our eggs and sperm in a dish. Sex would forever be purely recreational for us. No more pressure of doing it “at just the right time” (there’s a plus to IVF.)

The downside is that the immaculate conception process of IVF doesn’t leave much room for old-fashioned sex. Mid-way through growing a follicle farm, sex no longer seems like a fun idea. After the retrieval surgery, it’s banned for two weeks because of risk of infection- not that it matters, since I doubt even the most active libidos would want to have sex after recovering from having their ovaries harvested. Anyway, three to five days later those hard-won embryos are transfered back to the uterus, and most doctors suggest abstinence for at least two weeks after that- sometimes even longer.

If you’ve had three rounds of IVF, the first two which ended in early miscarriages, you don’t want to take any risks. Or at least that’s how I feel. I know that sex during pregnancy is perfectly safe, but since riding my bike across the bumpy path a few weeks ago freaked me out- this seems even more dangerous to our tiny fragile baby.

Mr. T felt the same way. So we’ve been suffering a long unfulfilled dry spell- particularly hard since sex is such a stress relief and God knows this has been stressful.

Anyway, on June 9th, the 11th anniversary of the day Mr. T and I met, we went to meet our midwife for the first time. I sat in the waiting room, worry twisting me up, trying hard not to be jealous of the huge pregnant bellies that filled the room. They looked so relaxed, so confident. One roundly-pregnant woman put in an order at Subway for her five kids at home. I felt entirely out of place. I gripped my phone and tweeted away to my Twitter friends to remind myself I wasn’t alone here.

Finally we were called in for our ultrasound.

“So you are pregnant?” the technician asked.

“I hope so,” said without much confidence. “We’ve been through a lot.”

I summarized our story so far.

She was sufficiently impressed, and I sensed, a bit nervous about her staring role in our day now. Would she be delivering good or bad news to this nice, sad, long-suffering couple?

After a moment of confusion about why I wasn’t getting undressed (So accustomed to my internal ultrasound dates with Mr. Wandy) I realized that I finally would get to have the kind of ultrasound that just involved some jelly on my belly.

I closed my eyes, so afraid to see bad news, and a moment later, heard her tell us with evident relief, “Great news! There’s your baby!”

“And a heartbeat too? Do you see a heartbeat?” I asked anxiously, still not daring to open my eyes.

“Oh yes- look!” Mr. T was already staring in amazement at our baby bouncing around on the screen, waving tiny arms and feet.

Tears of gratitude and wonder blurred my view. Despite my limited symptoms and my dangerously low optimism, this little person was growing strong inside me.

She counted arms and legs- two arms, two legs. Baby measured 11 weeks, a day ahead of its gestational age (thanks to IVF of course we know the exact conception date) and the heartbeat was at a strong 169, though the technician said it would start to slow down.

We watched in amazement as our baby bounced on the screen, the kind technician printing out lots of pictures for us of the little hands and feet, of the profile that already seemed to have a strong Italian nose. At one point baby did a little somersault, as if to show off to mama and tell me not to worry.

I laughed with joy and relief.

Today, I woke up in Mr. T’s arms and decided it was time to trust that baby wouldn’t mind if mama and dad had a little fun.

I have to admit it wasn’t our best sex ever, but just being so close to my husband again felt good. Mr. T made breakfast and noted approvingly that I looked happier than he’s seen me in a long time.

It’s been 11 weeks and 2 days since our immaculate conception. I’ve finally had sex with my husband. I’ve survived my first midwife appointment. I’m still taking it one day at a time, but I’m determined not to let my fear rob me any longer.

Though we’ll see how I feel about sex in the second trimester.

When an All-Natural Girl is Finally Pregnant with her Test Tube Baby

Going from All Natural to All Artificial to what's next?

So what happens when an all natural girl finally gets pregnant with her test tube baby? What’s next?

As I shared in an earlier blog post, I never imagined that my healthy lifestyle raised on organic milk and eggs would ever take such a drastic swing towards to this drug and surgery filled conception process of IVF. I assumed conception would be “natural” and that pregnancy would be a “natural” process as well. Although I wasn’t about to have an at home birth, I expected a “natural” birth with limited intervention and a midwife who boiled water and basically made sure everything was going ok down there as I gracefully pushed out a baby the way nature intended.

I was born in a hospital myself, before my parents made their hippie life in New Hampshire. Two years later my mother gave birth to my sister at home with a midwife on hand. After the delivery, my mother had hemorrhaging so doctor had to be rushed to the house, finding his way through the back country roads to save the day. When my brother came along a few years later, my mother ruled out another at-home birth and researched alternatives nearby (“near” being relative in New Hampshire) to find a “birthing center” in a hospital staffed with midwives in Vermont.

In the liberal city where I live now, I have friends who are midwives themselves, or have delivered their babies “naturally” with midwives. From them all I get an earful about how wrong modern medicine is when it comes to childbirth, that birth is a “natural” process and the increase in c-sections and inductions have made giving birth more dangerous than ever before.

Since I’ve been going through IVF for what seems like forever, their war cry seems irrelevant to me. I’ve had my ovaries pumped up on drugs and harvested, my eggs injected with my husband’s sperm in a lab, grown in a dish for 6 days, and then I watched on a monitor as my doctor and embryologist released these embryos into my womb. Nothing natural about any of that. There’s no possible way my husband’s sperm would have connected to my egg any other way.

Finally graduating from my fertility clinic was incredible, though going from their closely monitored and protected nest into the big world of what comes next has been intimidating. The idea of seeing either a midwife or OB seemed impossible. And I’d have to decide. I put it off for a long time, fearful of the decision as well as being terrified of “jinxing” my good luck.

A couple months ago I was sitting outside in the courtyard of my condo building, painting the flowers that were blooming in the garden. Our neighbor came out with her new baby and preceded to go on and on about her baby, how wonderful it was to be able to walk to the hospital for labor (two blocks away) and how even if she moved back to San Francisco, she would come back to this hospital just to give birth again. At the time I was annoyed. I was fresh off IVF 3.0, waiting for the terrifying first ultrasound, and had no desire to hear her unsolicited advice or answer her questions about my baby plans. I just wanted to paint my pictures in peace and keep my mind off anything baby related.

A few weeks ago I finally summoned my courage, and emailed my neighbor about what doctor she saw at the nearby hospital. She gave me the name of her midwife.

“Did you ever see a doctor?” I pressed her, still feeling unsure if my “brave new world baby” would be safe with a midwife.

She hadn’t seen a doctor, but assured me that they were likely wonderful too.

That night I mentioned to Mr. T that I had made the appointment with the midwife our neighbor had recommended.

“A midwife?” my husband asked, looking horrified. “After all we’ve been through, do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Fine- if you want a doctor- I don’t care. You can call and reschedule,” I said, annoyed that he thought he needed to remind me of the endless worries and all that we’ve been through in this process.

He assured me that if I felt good about it, then he did too. But his reaction struck a chord. Of course I wasn’t sure. After all we’ve been through, we didn’t need to take any chances. I don’t have any pride about having a “natural” childbirth. I honestly don’t care if I need drugs, surgery or whatever interventions they tell me are necessary to have this baby- just so long as we are both healthy at the end of it all.

I called the clinic and asked if I could interview both the midwife and doctor on our visit. The nice receptionist who already knows I’m crazy assured me that I’m welcome to change at any time.

I ran into our neighbor this weekend. She wanted to warn me that her friend didn’t have such a positive experience at the hospital, that the midwife was out when she went into labor and the doctor recommended a c-section.

“Were they both ok?” I asked.

They were. Her cautionary tale didn’t worry me in the least. Instead, I felt reassured that the hospital didn’t have qualms about taking “drastic” measures if necessary. Give me drugs and cut me open if necessary. I’ve been through that already.

So yes, I’ve come a long way from “natural,” baby. I’m grateful for modern medicine and doctors. I’ll do whatever it takes- whatever is necessary- to get you here safely.

For now, one day at a time. Please let Thursday go well. Please let this be the first of many appointments to the midwife- or doctor- whoever we choose.

Confessions of a Newly Pregnant Infertile

Even if it takes an extra slice-or two- of pie- I'm ready to look pregnant. Maybe then I can believe it.

Today I am 9 weeks and 2 days pregnant. But even as I write that, I feel like I’m an imposter- an infertile just pretending to be pregnant. That can’t be me I’m talking about!

I’ve kept my promise to be positive about this pregnancy with Mr. T: I smile and hug him when he asks how baby and I are doing; I humor him when he talks to my tummy. But the sad thing is, I still don’t believe it.

That’s the first of my confessions. Some other confessions:

1. I’m still jealous of pregnant ladies. Now that it’s spring, there seems to be an abundance of baby bumps out and about. I still look at them and wonder if they know how lucky they are. I still don’t feel like one of them. And yes, I’m still jealous of them.

2. I want a baby belly- even if it’s made of pie. Confession #1 brings me to confession #2. I don’t feel like one of “them,” but I want to be. I want a baby bump too.  I’ve never had to diet to keep to my size 4 and I know I’m lucky for that. But I’m ready to have a huge belly. Then I would believe this dream was real, right? My tummy is looking a bit rounder these days, but it very well could be from the extra helpings of pie combined with all the IVF drugs. In fact, here’s the big confession: I’m having extra helpings of pie because I want to look pregnant as soon as possible. Just go ahead and call me sad, crazy and desperate.

3. When I called the OB clinic to make my first appointment, I felt like they were going to discover at any moment I was an infertile imposter. I might as well have been calling Harvard Law School’s admissions office to tell them out of the blue that I’d like to attend. Acceptance to an OB  still seems that impossible to me. The kind receptionist at the clinic  definitely thinks I’m crazy. When she answered, I launched into an explanation about how “I never thought I’d ever gradate to this point, but ‘they say I’m pregnant’- I mean I guess I am pregnant-I just went through three rounds of IVF and I have an ultrasound to prove that I am- and I guess I need to make an appointment- but I have no idea how any of this works.” She scheduled an appointment for me. And I’m sure made a star next to my name to warn the others that I would be a neurotic one.

4. I’m still making contingency plans. Some friends are thinking of running a half marathon at the end of the summer. If “things don’t work out” I’m going to join them. Mr. T is planning to visit friends in Germany for Oktoberfest. If “things don’t work out” I’ll join him. Even if “things do work out” I’m continuing to look into adoption for #2. (Mr. T is an only child- and my biggest nightmare is to end up like his overly doting mother- another blog post for another time.)

5. I want to feel something. Anything. I’m tempted to eat gag-worthy foods just so I can experience that heralded sign of pregnancy. I try to convince myself I have cravings- but let’s be honest, chocolate doesn’t count. I’m not even that hungry- most days I have to convince myself to eat since nothing really sounds good. Wait- maybe that is a symptom?

6. I have survivor’s guilt. I haven’t fought this infertility battle alone. So many strong, kind, courageous women have been fighting by my side, helping me step by step. Many of them continue to fight, and I wish more than anything that I could take them all to the other side with me.

7. I’m afraid if the Gods notice too I’m happy, they will take it all away. So I try and be quiet. Not too hard since I’m still petrified. If I could have it my way, I wouldn’t tell anyone about this pregnancy until we had our baby in our arms. It just seems like the safest way not to draw the Gods’ attention to our good fortune. So far you all are the only ones to know- I figure my secret is safe here since my identity is by first name only. Surely the Gods would need a last name and address to find me.

June 9th is the target date circled in red on my calendar when I dream of sailing off into the happily-ever-after of pregnancy. It happens to be the 11th anniversary of the day Mr. T and I met- which I hope is a good omen for our first visit to the OB. We’ll be 10 weeks 5 days on that date.

If all is well, maybe I’ll finally be able to say out loud “I am pregnant”- and believe it. Maybe I’ll stop fearing the Gods noticing my happiness- and finally let myself be full with happiness and pie and a growing baby.

Finding Courage

It's time for me to find my badge of courage.

Through our diagnosis and all our hopeful pregnancies and subsequent losses, I’ve never seen Mr. T cry. He’s held me, his eyes full almost to over flowing, but while my sobs racked me, he’s held his back, holding me and telling me it will be ok.

Even last week, when we heard the heartbeat for the first time, Mr. T had just a glimmer of tears in his eyes.

On Thursday we went back for our final visit to our fertility clinic. On the way there, I thought back to September when we headed to our second ultrasound after IVF 1.0. That day I had said excitedly to Mr. T; “Well, this is our last trip to the clinic.” We were so happy. So optimistic. So sure that we would say goodbye to all our doctors and move on to baby land.

This time we sat in the waiting room as usual, Mr. T doing his best to distract me from my negative thoughts. On the exam table, I gripped Mr. T’s hand so hard he had to switch hands before Mr. Wandy even made an appearance.

As Mr. Wandy went in to investigate, I closed my eyes. After what seemed an inordinately long wait, I finally heard Dr. IVF say, “Looking good!” She turned the sound on, and the room was filled with an even faster and stronger heartbeat than the week before. “162 beats per minute,” she said. “7 weeks, 5 days. All measuring on track.” She checked her records. “Due date is December 30th. Congratulations you two!”

“December 30?! We are going to have a baby in December?”

Because of our many memorial dates scattered over the calendar like emotional land-mines, I had been adamant about not even thinking about when the due date would be. That we could have a baby in our arms this year just seemed impossible.

Our fertility team cleared the room, leaving Mr. T and I alone. The sheet still wrapped awkwardly around me, I clung to Mr. T saying with disbelief,

“We’re going to have a baby! In December!”

Mr. T held me closer, his body shaking, suddenly sobbing.

“T- are you ok?”

“For so long…I’ve just been… trying…. to be strong…. for you,” my husband said between sobs.

That he’d been holding this all inside all this time, through all our struggles, broke my heart and made me love him even more fiercely.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, my love. I’m here for you too,” I sobbed.

And so now it’s my job to keep that promise, and be strong for my husband. During the wait for our next ultrasound in three long weeks I may still be neurotic to all of you (sorry about that), but unless I have a real reason to worry, I’m going to be brave for my husband. When he asks how baby and I are, instead of my usual downer, “I hope we still have a baby,” I will smile and hug him. It’s his turn to enjoy this pregnancy- to stop carrying all the worry for the two of us. It’s his turn to finally believe that he will be a dad.

Crossing the Bridge at 7 Weeks

Will I ever get to the other side?

Even at my best (when I’m not a neurotic, newly pregnant hormonal  infertile) I’m a timid and reluctant bicyclist. As a runner, I’m accustomed to running against the traffic, looking out for crazy drivers and making sure they see me. On a bike I feel exposed and utterly at their mercy.

It doesn’t help that I have bad associations with biking and pregnancy. Early into our first pregnancy with IVF 1.0, Mr. T and I went camping in the San Juan Islands, biking 30 miles on the bumpiest roads imaginable. I was less neurotic then, but still very nervous.

When that pregnancy ended in miscarriage at our 8 week visit, my mind immediately jumped to that bike trip, blaming it for our loss. My midwife friends and doctors assured me that the biking hadn’t caused our loss, and I believe them in my rational mind, but in my heart I still wonder.

So last weekend on our trip to San Francisco, when Mr. T and our friends from Germany planned a bike trip across the Golden Gate bridge, I told them I would sit it out. But somehow I was persuaded. After all, I don’t see our friends often, and I’ve never biked across the Golden Gate Bridge. They all assured me it would be an easy ride on the bike lanes. We’d have lunch in Sausalito and take the ferry back to Fisherman’s Wharf.

The trip started out well on a flat bike lane. I grew anxious as we hit the hills, but I took them slowly and before long, we were at the Golden Gate Bridge.

Crossing over the bridge I thanked myself for being brave and making the trip. It felt symbolic somehow, proving to myself that I could be brave and positive about this pregnancy, that this little growing baby was tough enough to make it through this trip and the next 8 months.

A quiet bike lane led to Sausalito on the other side where we stopped for lunch before we took the ferry back. When we reached Fisherman’s Wharf, things suddenly got very bad. I was shaken by the crowds, the traffic, and the sudden realization of how far we still were from where we had picked up our rental bikes.

I got off my bike and told Mr. T that I wasn’t going any further. I told everyone to go ahead without me, that I’d find a cab back. Mr. T convinced me we’d follow the waterfront path instead to get back. This route turned out to be a bumpy gravel path. As my uterus bumped along, I cursed him and my anxiety grew thinking about IVF 1 and that fateful bike ride.

Why was I doing this again? I got off my bike for the second time, furious at my husband, telling our friends to go ahead without us. Mr. T and I stood with our bikes on the corner, furious with each other, unsuccessfully trying to flag down a cab willing to take two bikes.

“Go ahead without me,” I told Mr. T, knowing he was late for a networking meeting he had arranged.

“I’m not leaving my pregnant wife alone on the corner,” he said chivalrously, though with evident frustration.

“Well, don’t worry about that. I doubt we will still have a baby after this,” I said, fighting back scared, frustrated tears.

I was angry that he couldn’t protect me- that he didn’t have the stress of protecting this tiny, fragile life. Most of all, I was mad at myself that I couldn’t believe in this baby- that I’m too nervous about heartbreak to let down my guard and be happy.

Tomorrow I go back for a second ultrasound. Baby, I hope you didn’t mind the bike ride. Please give a shout and a wave when we see you, and reassure your neurotic mama that she’s going to have years and years of worrying about you.

But I know that even though I’m pregnant, I’ll never be like other fertiles-and that’s ok. I’m proud to be part of this club. On Sunday, I got to meet my dear Twitter friend, @sassyNtubeless. She’s as lovely in person as she is on Twitter, and I’m just so grateful to have others who understand like she does- and like you all do.

As for the end of the bike trip- I found a saintly cab driver who took me and my bike back to the bike rental place. A good reminder that there’s more than one way to get back home.

The $20,000 bag. Priceless.

What? For me? Really?

I’m still in shock. Good things can happen to me at the RE’s office after all. It’s hard to believe.

This morning in the waiting room, my nerves were unraveling by the second. The more I tried to block out the memories of my scans from IVF 1.0 and IVF 2.0, the more I kept recalling that ominous click and measure sound as Dr. IVF zoomed in on my uterus, measuring and searching and always coming up short. IVF 1.0 we saw a tiny flicker of a heartbeat, and a baby measuring three days behind, but the heartbeat was faint and it wasn’t loud enough to hear. At our second scan it was gone. IVF 2.0, the click and measure found a only a small gestational sac. No heartbeat. I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing that click and measure again, reminding me of these memories, so I put in headphones, closed my eyes, and told Dr. IVF and Mr. T to wake me up when it was over- or when we had good news.

In went Mr. Wandy, and I tried to think happy thoughts. Almost right away, Dr. IVF was telling me to open my eyes.

Me, still not daring to open my eyes:

“Really? Are you sure it’s good news?”

Dr. IVF: “Yes! See that- right there? That flicker is the heartbeat.”

Me: “But don’t you have to click and and zoom in to really see it? Are you sure that’s it?”

Was there anyone ever so stubborn to believe in good news?

Then she turned on the sound. All at once the room was filled with a beating heart. My baby’s heart. We could hear it. She could measure it. 126 beats per minute.

Still clutching Mr. T’s hand in a death-grip, I finally relaxed and began to cry. It was real. Mr. Wandy was barely out and I was already hugging Dr. IVF and our nurse, the embarrassed new intern looking on. I tried to explain to him how much we’ve been through to get to this point- and realized it didn’t matter. Our nurse was crying, too- telling me for the first time that she knows how I feel- that she too has a “miracle baby.” That every day she looks at him and can’t believe he’s real.

Dr. IVF gave me a gift bag that says “Congratulations” on it. It’s a pregnancy book she helped edit.

This is all surreal. As Dr. IVF extends the gift, I still felt like there must be a mistake. Hold up! Are you sure you want to congratulate me now? Are you sure you have the right lady? This pregnancy books is for ME?

It is.