Gender Reveal for Brave New World Babies

Carrot cake to celebrate the two babies on the way.

Before I reveal the genders of the two new Brave New World babies, I have to admit that I’ve been reluctant to update here for a while now. It just seems so unfair that I not only have a sweet little two year old from IVF 3.0, but now now I’m pregnant with twins while so many of my dear friends are still waiting for their turn. I feel like I’ve taken more than my share of the pie. I’m so grateful for every slice, but I feel guilty, as if my extra helping could have been someone else’s.

Ironically, exactly three years ago I wrote “Confessions of a Newly Pregnant Infertile” in which confession #6 was survivor’s guilt, and confession #7 was “afraid of being too happy least the gods take it all away.”  I’m still right where I was then.

I’m slowly telling friends and family our news, but I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible will happen if I let myself be too happy, or if I forget for a moment all the pain I went through to get to this point. So I haven’t shared my happy news too widely, and I certainly haven’t posted it to Facebook. (When I show up for my 15 year college reunion next week with an extra 15 pounds that isn’t from the “freshman 15” I’m sure I’ll get some interesting sideways glances.)

So I’ll whisper it here for now- how happy I am. How amazed I am by these two tiny growing babies. Frozen in a dish for four years, and now growing- and kicking. My eyes still fill with tears of gratitude every time I hear their heartbeats (matching heartbeats at 156 bpm last week), and every time I see their little fists and legs dancing on the ultrasound. Mr. T and I look at each other and say ten times a day that we can’t believe it. How lucky we are.

We made the 3,000 mile trek home to see my family this week- my last trip before I can no longer travel. When we arrived, we had a little “reveal” party celebration for the babies. Mr. T and I had found out the genders a few weeks ago during our 15 week ultrasound, but successfully kept the news quiet. We hadn’t found out ahead of time with our daughter, and that moment when she was born and Mr. T. announced, “It’s a girl!” is a memory I will always treasure. However, for a variety of reasons this time we decided to find out ahead of time. But I still wanted it to be a special moment.

I bought a couple balloons and put them into gift bags for E and her cousin to open after dinner. Everyone in the family made their guesses about who the newest family members would be before they opened the bags. I was amazed that not a single person guessed it correctly!

Our two Brave New World Babies are:

It’s a girl! And another girl!

 

Three daughters! I think some people feel badly for us that we won’t have a boy, but honestly, I couldn’t be happier, nor care less about the gender. It’s just fun to celebrate the first clue as to who these little people might become. Now that we know they are both girls, Mr. T is convinced that they are identical (the two that split resulting in three gestational sacks at our 6 week ultrasound.)

The balloons are floating around the house now, making me smile.

We have our big anatomy scan in a couple weeks, after which I’ll exhale a little bit, while I keep praying each day these babies want to stay right where they are until they are fully cooked. Celebrating one day at a time.

 

 

Bleeding, an Ultrasound and Telling our Families

Three more days until I reach 12 weeks. Eight more days of my black & blue bruised butt being poked by that monster PIO needle. And six more months until these babies are due to arrive.

A couple weeks ago I had some massive bleeding. Bright red, soaking through two pads. The bleeding started an hour before my sister was scheduled to arrive from across the country. Mr. T and I had been looking forward to telling her our news in person, and then finally telling our families.

Our families know what we’ve gone through, and like us, didn’t expect we’d have the chance to have another child. So this announcement was going to be a big deal.

I decided not to tell my sister our news that night, hoping the bleeding would stop by the next morning. The next morning, the bleeding was still heavy. I could have gone in for an ultrasound, but I was afraid to confirm it was over before we even had a chance to celebrate these babies with our families. So instead, I put on a big smile, and told my sister the good news. She hugged us and cried- unlike me, she’s not one who is prone to tears- so I knew she knew what this meant for us. And seeing her eyes widen when she heard we had not one but two babies on the way was the best.

We went on the tell our parents and grandparents, despite the continued bleeding that weekend. Loving their responses- my grandfather almost falling off his chair when he heard we were having twins.

The bleeding slowed and stopped by Sunday. Then on Monday, I went in for the ultrasound. My sister came with me. Mr. T was supposed to meet me at the doctor’s office, but got caught in a meeting at work. So as I lay down on the ultrasound table, my sister held my hand instead. I clutched her hand as tightly as I always do Mr. T’s, trying to stay calm, so glad that at least my sister was there.

As soon as the ultrasound flickered to life on the screen, the technician was telling me I could breath- that she could see both babies’ heartbeats. She zoomed in on Baby A first, who was measuring a day ahead of schedule now, with a strong heartbeat of 178. Baby was moving all around, waving tiny hands and kicking tiny feet. My sister and the technician and I all oohed and aahhed over the cuteness.

Then she turned the camera to Baby B. Baby B who had measured almost a week behind during our early ultrasounds. But who had slowly and surely caught up, and was now only one day behind the estimated due date and had a strong heartbeat of over 170. Baby B was just as lively, kicking and bouncing around next to Baby A.

Two babies. Both growing strong. No sign of what was causing the massive bleeding at all.

Just about every day, Mr. T and I look at each other in wonder, amazed this is happening.  While my excitement is still tempered by worry, his joy is infectious. He was a lonely only child growing up, and always wanted three kids himself. But it seemed too much to dream when we thought we might not be able to have children at all.

Amazing.

 

 

 

 

 

Double the Joy, Double the Worry

6 weeks and 2 days: Baby A and Baby B and empty sack for Angel Baby C in the middle who likely split from either A or B.

We had our second ultrasound on Thursday. I had been feeling especially “well” that day, so I was sure something bad must have happened.

To my surprise, Dr. L. found both babies and their flickering heartbeats right away. He said he had heard from Dr. A. about the third sack, and wanted to check that out so we started our tour of my uterus there, confirming that sack A was empty (I never thought I’d be relieved to see an empty gestational sack). Measuring it, he found that it was only about a third of the size of the other two sacks.

Dr. L said that unless Mr. T and I had sex and fertilized an egg at the same time as our transfer (which I reminded him is entirely impossible unless I was having an affair- and even then still quite unlikely) he said that one of our embryos must have split. Which means that it’s possible- although unlikely, that Baby A and B are identical.

He zoomed in on Baby B next. To my concern, Baby B is measuring 6 days behind. Little B should be at 7 weeks 1 day, but is only measuring 6 weeks 2 days. Heartbeat was 119. Dr. L didn’t seem to concerned, but he’s always nice and generally optimistic. He said the fact that the heartbeat was strong and baby was continuing to grow was a good sign. That B would likely catch up.

Baby A on the other hand is only 2 days behind- at 6 weeks 5 days. Dr. L turned on the sound and the heartbeat was so loud and fast at 146 bpm that I couldn’t believe it was coming from such a tiny little speck.

Overall, I should have left feeling happy. But measuring behind always worries me, based on my unhappy experiences. And now that I’ve had a chance to see Baby A and Baby B, and hear their sweet little heartbeats, I feel that much more attached to them. I’m already picturing the two of them keeping each other company in the womb as they did in the freezer for four years, snuggling together as babies, holding hands as they grow up and being best friends forever.

Mr. T and I left, under my self-imposed somber dark cloud of worry. Poor Mr. T. All these years of carrying my worry. He said as much in a rare outburst on the car ride home.

And I decided that even if I’m right to worry- Mr. T is right that we deserve to be happy in the moment once in a while too.

So this weekend I threw all caution to the wind, and made the bold decision to tell my best friend on Saturday. She’s expecting her second baby in May, and was overjoyed for us. It felt good to let myself be happy.

Then I went to the bathroom and was spotting brown. It’s as if the universe felt me getting too happy, and wanted to keep me in check. I lay down for the rest of the afternoon, convinced it was the beginning of the end.

The spotting stopped by the time we headed out to a friend’s birthday party that evening where we would see all our closest friends. On the way over, Mr. T asked if it was ok if we told everyone there. They know what we’ve been through- and most of them knew we were starting the FET process, but I had been vague about the dates, not wanting the pressure of keeping everyone posted about each milestone along the way.

But now, I realized that this might be it. It might be the only time we could celebrate these two miraculous little heartbeats with our friends. These two embryos had waited so long- they deserve all the hope and joy and love from our friends. And so did Mr. T. After all, this is the last pregnancy announcement we’ll ever make- no matter what happens next.

So we told them. And their hugs and love and the outpouring of joy they had for us was amazing. Any misgivings  I had about sharing our news were gone when I saw Mr. T’s  happy face across the room. Thinking back to his diagnosis of Azoospermia five years ago, not sure if we’d ever be able to have children, let alone the big family he always dreamed of- he deserved this moment.

We still aren’t telling our families until we are out of the first trimester- from past experience we’ve learned they need more comforting and ask more questions than our friends when things don’t go well. 

But celebrating Baby A and Baby B with our friends felt good. No matter what happens next, I’m glad we had this moment. Maybe after five years of infertility, I’m finally learning to be braver. I can only hope. And continue to hope for Baby A and B with all my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t worry about me, Mr. T

Our first dance.

When Mr. T and I got married, I gave him the task of deciding our first dance song. There were the usual choices, but in the end he went with Worried Eyes by Eagle Eye Cherry. He had sung it to me early in our relationship to make me stop worrying about something- I can’t even remember what kind of silly worry I had back then- and it stuck as our song.

Not the most appropriate wedding song- but it was sadly ironic given what worries we’d face together in the future and he was wiser than I gave him credit for. As we’d learn, marriage is about facing those worries and helping each other through them.

Worry has been a constant companion in our marriage over the past few years. The uncertainties of IVF and if it would even be an option for us, the stress of each step of the process, the fear of loss after loss. Then this pregnancy with the potential of joy balanced tenuously with my my fear of heartbreak; at each milestone I’ve promised Mr. T that I’ll stop worrying at the next milestone.

A few times he dared to believe I was over my worry, and ventured to read my blog. (Typically he respects this as my private space to write what I feel.) But after reading my confessions about the fears and sadness that linger, he would look at me with his own worried eyes- and promise me that he wouldn’t read my blog again.

Now at 26 weeks, something has shifted. Last week I had series of business meetings in New York and Boston- a long cross-country flight away. I had been so anxious about baby being ok through the rigorous week of travel and stress and being so far from my doctor. But baby was a champion. As I navigated my stressful week, baby would reassure me with kicks so hard that I could see my tummy move through my shirt. Mr. T wasn’t there to tell me not to worry, but baby was doing the job for him.

Two days after I got home, Mr. T left for his own business trip, so I had to go to our first childbirth class alone. I was surprised to find I was the only one there without a partner. After all Mr. T and I been through together, it was strange to be in this class alone. I looked around the room at the eight other couples, and wondered- as I always do- if anyone else had struggled.

After some introductions, the instructor had the guys go into another room to discuss how pregnancy had changed their relationships, while we did the same. If you think pregnancy changes your relationship, you should try infertility! (I thought but didn’t say.)

Then there were a few odd jokes about “Well, that’s how we all got here!” referring to sex-(Me in my mind: Not if you do it in a test-tube!) But I was so happy to be there, to believe that I too might give birth to a healthy baby, just as millions of others have been doing throughout time.

The instructor wrapped up the class telling us how important it was for our significant others to be partners in this process, and I realized that all these people must assume that since he wasn’t at the first class, my husband must not be supportive.

I wanted to tell them they couldn’t even imagine what our story had been. My husband had his private parts cut open so we could have this baby! He gave me every painful shot and was there for every ultrasound and doctor appointment through three cycles of IVF! He comforted me after two miscarriages, and through long tearful days and nights that followed.  

But I don’t have to prove anything to these people. If anything, I feel a little bit sorry for them. Infertility has tested my relationship with Mr. T and our commitment to having a child together- in a way that fertiles can’t imagine. I’m grateful for it all.

So, Mr. T- if you are reading this post, thank you. You can stop worrying about me now. I really am relaxing into the strange and wonderful idea that this is the happily ever after I’ve been waiting for. That I’m going to be a mama.

And that you are going to be the most amazing daddy.

Facebook Dilemma

For those of us dealing with infertility, Facebook is an emotional landmine. It might as well be called “babybook.” Pictures of pee sticks, ultrasounds, pregnancy updates from “friends” who post their pregnancy update before the pee is even dry on that stick- this is the land of clueless Fertile Myrtles. They roam carelessly here, reminding us incessantly of what we don’t have.

I would have been one of them too too if circumstances had been different. So many of my dearest friends live far away, and Facebook keeps us connected through the changes in our lives. They posted their baby bump photos and baby pictures and I’ve been truly happy for them all. I’m sure I would have shared a few of the milestones and joys of pregnancy myself by now if I weren’t part of this club.

But at 22 weeks, 2 days, I still haven’t posted an update about the most wonderful news I’ve ever had to share. I watch other announcements and baby bump pictures fill up my news feed, and still can’t bring myself to add my own.

Last week Mr. T’s ex-girlfriend posted her first baby announcement. (Mr. T and I both still keep in touch with our college sweethearts, as well as each other’s-another story for another time.) As silly as it sounds, I have been dreading this moment- when one of our exes posted their pregnancy news. I knew it would happen before we ever posted any news of our own. So, seeing her status update instantly turned my stomach upside down, even though I have my own growing bump now.

Then, reading her update again: “Excited and grateful to be welcoming a baby in December,” I began to wonder if she was one of us. She had waited until past 20 weeks to share her news, and she had used the word “grateful.” Only those of us in this club truly appreciate what it is to be “grateful” and not just “excited” to be expecting.

That evening, Mr. T told me that he had congratulated her on her news privately, sharing our news as well, and how it had been a struggle for us. Sure enough, she had been through her own struggles, with multiple miscarriages before this pregnancy.

Her subtle status update made me realize that it is possible to convey pregnancy news in a way that is understood by others still struggling, without having to spell it out to those Fertile Myrtles who aren’t owed any explanation. After all, I have no desire to share with my 7th grade teacher, work colleagues and random classmates from grade school that I’m “Finally knocked up after 3 rounds of IVF and 2 miscarriages.”

Still, I haven’t posted my own update, and I’ve been debating if I need to at all. On Sunday I had a chance to meet dear Twitter blogger friends @alethea and @breannadk, explaining my dilemma to them. It suddenly struck me that the reason I haven’t posted isn’t entirely selfless, being sensitive to other Facebook friends who may be silently struggling- it’s also because I’m still afraid. I’m terrified if I announce it to the world, something bad will happen.

It’s the same reason I haven’t picked out names, painted the nursery, or started a baby registry. It’s the same reason that the only baby thing we own is a plastic giraffe named Sophie- a gift from friends.

@alethea and @breannadk agreed that I need to post to Facebook, as a small first step to all of these other wonderful things I should be thinking about.

I’ve been depriving my husband from sharing this joy on Facebook too- and after all we’ve been through- we deserve our moment. He only recently admitted to me how jealous he’s been of all our friends’ little ones- he deserves to shout it from the rooftops now. This little one, our miracle from the dish- deserves to have all our friends to share in our joy too.

I still don’t know how I’ll share this news on Facebook, but I’m pretty sure I’ll use the word “grateful.” Nothing else says it quite as well. In fact, maybe “grateful” should be our code word- our way of telling others still struggling that it took time and tears and heartbreak and pain- to get to this joyful moment.

As I sit here writing this, baby kicks me to agree.

So unbelievably grateful. 

Kick me Baby

When I was about to embark on IVF round 1, I met with a woman who had been through several rounds of IVF before finally having success. She told me how the experience changed her forever, how hard it was on her marriage, that it took a high emotional and physical toll and that she still had moments of sadness- but that she’d do it all again in an instant for her three boys.

Her story terrified me. It had a happy ending yes, but I didn’t want to change.  I wanted to believe that pregnancy would instantly banish all the sadness and raw emotion that comes with surviving a journey through infertility. That I’d have a baby and go on being my happy self.

Well, I’m over 20 weeks pregnant now, but I’m not “cured.”  I worry- a lot- even though I constantly promise Mr. T and you all that I’m done worrying. The saddest part is that I’ve been afraid to let myself love this little one too fiercely, to be too happy. I’ve loved and lost before. I can’t bear another heartbreak.

So sad isn’t it? I won’t admit this to anyone in real life- only to myself here and to you all.

But this week, for the first time, I felt baby kick. Not just a little flutter that could be indigestion or gas, but a full forceful series of kicks. I shouted to Mr. T who came running from downstairs, afraid something terrible had happened. (Maybe I’m not the only one in our marriage who is always afraid of the worst.) T put his hands on my tummy where I had felt the kicks, and sure enough, baby responded with another kick.

Laughing (and crying a little bit), I hugged my belly and my husband. With each kick I felt like I was waking up and coming back to life.  This was real. This tiny little person, who started life as an embryo in a dish, the only survivor of 14 eggs and 7 embryos, was here with us, kicking so that we could both feel it.

I needed that kick.

I’m not the same person I was before the three rounds of IVF, before my losses, before this pregnancy. Sometimes I don’t like how I’ve changed, that I’ve exchanged some of my carefree optimism for cynicism. But worrying doesn’t mean I’m weak. It means I’m becoming a mother. I’ll take that.

Bumps and Anatomy scans

I’ve always marveled at the way pregnant women rest their hands on their bellies. From my jaded perspective, it seemed like a possessive gesture, as if to say: this baby is mine. Or perhaps that round belly is a comfortable arm rest- though if that were the case, more men would be resting their hands on their beer guts.

But now that I’m pregnant myself, with a tiny bump that I wish were bigger, I find my hands resting there too. Because I need to reassure myself that this is real. That I truly am pregnant. That this baby is growing in me.

Thursday morning I woke up and as usual, sized up my baby belly. Looking at it from every angle with dismay, I realized my little bump was smaller today than it was a week ago. And of course, that familiar fear rose up in me: is my baby still growing? 

On Monday I had met up with a friend who is also due in December, a happy result of her first IVF cycle. She’s had her share of sorrows along the way, with several miscarriages and a pregnancy several years ago that ended at 20 weeks with a diagnosis of a fatal heart defect at her baby’s anatomy scan. She had done an NT scan with good results, painted the nursery, and thought she was on her way to becoming a mama. Then this unexpected and tragic news at 20 weeks.

Hearing her story again, just a few days before my baby’s anatomy scan, struck renewed fear into my heart.

In the clinic’s waiting room on Thursday afternoon, I looked at all the large round pregnant bellies around me, realizing that I was still the only one who didn’t look pregnant.  At 19 weeks, shouldn’t I have more to show for it? Where was my baby bump? Would I ever sit in this waiting room feeling like I belonged here, without anxiety?

The nurse finally called me in for the routines of peeing in a cup, blood pressure, and the monthly weigh-in. I was somewhat reassured as I watched the numbers on the scale go up to a solid 142- I had gained 12 pounds since IVF 3 in March. It seemed like a respectable weight gain; surely some of that was my growing baby.

In the ultrasound room, Mr. T and I told Dr. Nice that we didn’t want to  know the gender of the baby. This will likely be our only pregnancy, and I wanted the surprise and the experience of imagining having a boy and a girl as long as I could.

Dr. Nice put the jelly on my belly and got the machine set up to go. I held Mr. T’s hand, gripped hard with anxiety and looked away from the monitor- after all this time still so afraid of seeing bad news.

A moment later I heard the words I needed to hear: “There’s your baby!” Looking like a real baby now- so much more than the tiny speck we first saw back in May-baby was snuggled in, arching his/her back and stretching out a hand and foot here and there.

As Mr. T and I gazed adoringly at this sweet picture, Dr. Nice counted fingers, toes and other essential parts, measuring the heart, lungs, brain. At each measurement she reassured us that all looked perfect. Baby weighs 8 oz, and is measuring right on track.

Several times Dr. Nice had Mr. T and I look away, assuring us that not even our midwife would know our baby’s gender; until our baby’s birthday arrival, Dr. Nice would be the only one in the world to know.

She printed out a string of pictures for us. Beaming ear to ear, I left the clinic feeling lighter and happier, so full of relief.

Later that night, Mr. T and I looked at these fuzzy images, trying to work out if what we were looking at was an ear or eye, nose or hand. For the first time since our miscarriage following IVF 1, we got out the baby name book and started making lists of names.

Today I went to my first prenatal yoga class. Surrounded by all the other pregnant ladies, some due before me and some due after me, for the first time I felt like I belonged in this group too.  We went around the room and introduced ourselves, sharing our due dates, worries and aches and pains.

I was last in the circle. For a moment I struggled with how to introduce myself. Should I tell them I was IVFJess? Do I need to go into all the steps that brought me here, to this group of strangers?

“Hi- I’m Jess, due December 30th. Feeling great, and so grateful to be here.”

Then I rested my hands on my belly in an embrace, silently telling baby how much I love him/her. How unbelievably thankful I am for all of this. That I will never take a single day for granted.

Home

One of my favorite places in the world: Home. A view of the mountains across the lake.

My heart has two homes: one in my adopted city where I now live with all the urban amenities I have come to appreciate, and another in the small New England town where I grew up- 3,000 miles away.

Through our infertility struggles, I was glad to have the distance. I didn’t want my family to have too close a view into the sad events that unfolded. They knew we were going through IVF and that “things were not going well,” but we stopped giving updates after Round 1 ended in miscarriage #1. It was easier for me, not having to carry my own sadness as well as the their sadness for us.

But now that we’ve announced the happy news, having sent Father’s Day cards with ultrasound pictures and little notes to our fathers last month, the distance feels too far to adequately share all the joy we are welcoming into our lives.

Mr. T’s mom, an overly doing mother of an only child, has informed us of her plans to buy a second home near us. (My mother-in-law is a topic for another time, but to summarize- she’s a very nice lady but she still seems to feel there’s a competition between us for Mr. T’s affections.) So needless to say, her plan to move near us causes me some anxiety. Just being around her causes anxiety and stress- that’s just the way she is.

My sister's English bulldog: 7 months old and learning to swim already (with the help of an old life jacket.) He especially loves that paddle!

Very different from my mellow, low key family. Mr. T and I just got back from a relaxing vacation with them, a beautiful week at the cabin on the lake where my father grew up, and where my family has spent many happy summers over the years. My brother and sister and their spouses and dogs all met us there too, and my parents reveled in the rare moment that they get to have us all together. We swam, boated, watched the amusing antics of the cat and dogs, played games, were treated to my mother’s wonderful cooking followed by

An early morning paddle with my parents' boat-loving cat.

campfires and s’mores.

One day, we drove an hour back to the house where we grew up, the beautiful 200 year old home with so many memories, and where my siblings and I all had our weddings. My parents have the the family homestead on the market now, and it breaks my heart though I understand they can’t afford to keep it, and that Mr. T and I, even if we move back to New England, wouldn’t move back to this tiny town of 700 people.

I went to my old room, still untouched from the day I left for college 15 years ago, and looked out at the view of the mountains, the woods where I built tree-houses and spent hours reading, the field below where I married my husband. I had wanted my children to experience this place, to know it and love it too, but that will never be.

Where will home be for this baby? Mr. T has always said we can move back anytime I want, but I know the life we have in our current home is a good one. It’s hard to imagine leaving it. It’s also hard to imagine this baby growing up so far from grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and even my siblings’ funny dogs.

For now, home for this baby is in my belly, and I hope it will be so until December. We have our big anatomy scan on Thursday. If all goes well, I think this will be the point where I may finally exhale. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Milestones at the end of the Rainbow

The view from my fertility clinic. So many days spent looking out this window and wondering if I'd get to the other side of the rainbow. It feels like a dream.

I’m 15 weeks and 1 day pregnant. Either that or I’m dreaming all this- which seems more likely.

Since my last blog post, I’ve hit a number of milestones that I’ve wanted to share here, but it’s been a busy month with family visiting and weekend trips sandwiched between busy work weeks. So here’s a little catch up on the milestones from the past few weeks:

• At 12 weeks we had our NT scan. To my surprise, we got good news from our test results. This is still such a new thing for me- the concept of getting good news. For so long it felt like we were stuck in that 1% that gets bad news. We breathed a sigh of relief- and then I began to hold my breath again for the end of the first trimester milestone.
• At 13 weeks we celebrated our first week without PIO shots. Amazing. And a bit terrifying. “Look Ma- no hands! This is all natural now!” Yikes.
• We began telling the world our news. This is the scariest part for me. With our first pregnancy, we found out about our miscarriage right after we started telling people, the second time we hadn’t told anyone which made that miscarriage easier to bear, so the terror of having to share bad news again kept us very quiet. Each time we told someone, I had a small panic attack. After hearing the news, my grandmother (who doesn’t know anything about our struggles) told me that her “prayers had been answered.” I resisted the urge to tell her it took so much more than prayer alone to make this baby.
• I bought my first pair of maternity pants. My little sister came to visit and she insisted that we go maternity shopping- though my belly is only slightly round. I hid behind the racks while she asked for directions to the maternity sections, reluctantly following her and a parade of “real” pregnant ladies. I finally bought some pants. (I had no idea that the pregnant ladies had been enjoying such comfort in style- I may wear maternity pants forever now-wow.)  To my relief, buying pants/ telling the world I was pregnant didn’t bring any immediate demise.
• At 14 weeks we officially graduated to our second trimester. Pinch me. Is this real?
• Around 14 weeks I finally told my boss and coworkers the news- and explained the reason for my hundreds of mysterious doctor appointments from the past year and a half. They have been so supportive, and so respectful of my privacy. They were thrilled for me, (and relieved to hear I didn’t have a terminal illness.)
• Yesterday I went for our regular midwife appointment. I was just a regular patient. Just like anyone else. Until she asked if I had any questions and I brought out my long list. At Question #17: “Are you SURE it’s safe to have sex?” I started to cry.  Since my last post on this topic Mr. T and I have only done it a couple times and I’m always too nervous to enjoy it. She told me to enjoy it now while we could, which made me cry harder. Then she told me it was ok to worry, that she still worries about her grown son, that it’s what mothers do. But our baby wants us to be excited and happy.

So at 15 weeks and 1 day, that’s what I’m trying to do. After I dried my tears, the midwife finally gave me the only kind of reassurance that really helps: evidence that our baby is still ok, hearing the heartbeat through the Doppler.  We even heard a sloshing sound that she said was the baby moving around. “Baby is moving all around you can’t even feel it yet. Isn’t that amazing?” Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe it.

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.