When I decided to run a marathon back in 2011, I signed up for a running clinic through what is now my running club.
The first workout – 200 meter repeats – I was struck with the strongest feeling.
I was made for this.
Over the years, I’ve wondered about my focus on running, mostly as it relates to me emotional, mental, and physical health.
Charlie put it best, recently, on a day where I was getting antsy because it was late and I still needed to get miles in that day.
Always, the running, he said. Obsessed.
I am NOT obsessed, I replied. I do things other than running. Swimming, for example. Weights. Yoga. Cycling.
… So you can run MORE! he replied, laughing.
We both laughed, knowing that he was exactly, 1000% right.
My silence these past couple of weeks has been a function of processing through layers and layers and layers of emotional baggage.
It’s like I finally decided to go up into the attic to clean it out… and was confronted with a room, packed to the brim with 37 years of hoarded Memories and Denied Emotions. There’s been little space to even navigate. So I’ve just been sorting through, processing, moving things around, letting go.
And with all the work I’m putting into sorting through all the crap I’ve never managed to get through, patterns are emerging.
For example, I’m starting to see that I have very little clarity about what really makes me happy.
Said another way: the person I am now is a function of many, many years of trying to fix my many weaknesses. I’ve found gratification in working around the faults my parents found in me.
I’m an excellent Finder of Lost Things, for example. Because I ALWAYS lose stuff.
I’m also an amazing Project Manager. Because I hate being overwhelmed by everything I have to do and not knowing where to start. I also know that if I think a task will take me, say, 2 hours, I should budget 4-6; even more if it’s something I don’t actually like or want to do.
Because I’m easily distractable, you see, and will end up using that extra time.
Last night was the second week of my spring running clinic.
The combination of weight loss and consistency in weekly mileage for the past few months has turned me into a very different runner than I was last year. And I’m working with a coach who has always told me I was capable of more than I’ve done thus far.
One of the benefits of hiring a coach is that it takes ALL the guesswork out of building a training plan. He’s stayed on top of my weekly mileage in the weeks where my ankle has flared up and I couldn’t run through it. He’s scheduled me for strength training when I mentioned my IT band was becoming bothersome again, way up at my hip.
And a couple of weeks ago, he planned a speed workout for me. And this time, he told me to hit a certain pace for each interval. I hit them, easily.
And when I got home and plugged in the distance and time into the computer, and saw the average pace, I was completely gobsmacked.
I never thought I could actually run that fast.
I WANTED to, of course. But wanting and actually DOING are very different things.
So last night the workout was three miles of intervals. I ran them strong and fast – at the pace I never thought myself capable of.
I don’t know how running does it, but the act of running somehow distills me into my very core. Everything falls away, and I’m left with just my essence, my hrdaya – heart center.
My runs lately have been moving meditations, where all I have to do is listen and something will well up from deep inside me. They’re generally phrased as questions, and they’re said with a voice that is quiet and full of knowledge; so much different than that nonstop chatter voice of my mind.
Last night’s thought? The universe has given me a gift.
A good friend of mine asked me yesterday, just before clinic, if we were definitively done trying for another baby.
She knows about our struggles, and she knows that I was pregnant last fall and lost it.
So I told her the truth: that I was 99% sure we were done, really done, but I was having a hard time closing the door completely. We don’t have any hope left. I can’t even consider walking back into that clinic, doing the shots, the medications, the transfer. And the life I have now is pretty full; I get baby time through my family and friends, and I am starting to wonder if that’s the universe’s plan for my life – if I’m just not meant to have more than one kid. And if I can’t have a house full of kids and chaos, maybe I should focus my energy into finding a career I love and making the life I have NOW better.
She asked me if we had considered a surrogate. We have, I said, but the cost is staggering and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.
Late last night, she texted me and offered to be a surrogate for us if we wanted. I know it’s a huge thing and surrogacy isn’t like a simple fix. But, I know it’s really expensive, and if a uterus is the thing you need, I mean… I don’t know, it just occurred to me.
I don’t know what’s next.
I think we are done with trying for kids, even with my friend’s generous offer to act as a surrogate for us.
I think I might quit my job for a bit so I can allow myself the space to think and feel, in the hopes that my next career might spring up organically.
I think I might keep sorting through the room of emotional baggage in the attic and let go of what doesn’t help me anymore.
I think I’m going to try my best to qualify for the Boston Marathon when I run my marathon in the fall.
I think I am finding out that no matter what is next, the life that I have now – my friends, my family – EVERYTHING that has led me to this point – is a gift.
All I know is that last night, I felt THANKFUL. Thankful for infertility, because without it, I wouldn’t be in this place I am today. Without infertility, I wouldn’t have met my friend D on a TTC board and I wouldn’t have been introduced to the idea of running a half marathon.
Because of infertility, D is one of the most important people in my life. Because of infertility, I found running – and my therapist. And ran a marathon. And found the motivation to lose 35lbs.
I have always tried to find the good in our IF; it’s been really, really hard on days.
But last night, it struck me.
Our IF is a gift, too.
For those of you who have read this blog for years, or know me in person, my next statement won’t be too much of a surprise.
I have a really hard time managing without a PLAN.
Back in the day, in the suck of trying for Lucky, I took great comfort in having a plan for the next cycle. Knowing that we were going to try again at X date made the breaks we took bearable, made the pregnancy – and birth announcements – easier to handle. I felt like my RE clearly couldn’t guarantee us a baby, but everything we did and planned on doing in subsequent cycles would lead us to the goal of a live baby.
The thing is, now. Our truth: Treatments are not a panacea.
We do more treatments, we risk more negatives and more miscarriages. Yes, we might get lucky again, over time, and one of those embryos might implant in the “right” place in my uterus, and result in a live birth. But it’s a product of LUCK, not of planning and work and foresight.
And it could – probably will, actually – cost us a lot more heartbreak.
I’m not sure I’m willing to endure more. I’ve already suffered enough on this path. Every time I think about going back and using up our final two embryos, my heart constricts.
I can’t do another miscarriage. I just can’t. It’s too much for me.
But I can’t walk away yet, either.
And it’s interesting: I feel like the idea of ending treatments forever is a loose tooth. I’ve been pushing it around with my tongue, sucking on it, wiggling it until it’s nearly out… but the damn tooth is still connected by a string. And I know – a quick yank, a pull, a tug will make it come out of my mouth, but it’ll hurt. And maybe bleed.
I can’t walk away, but I can’t do more treatments.
So I’m doing nothing.
Which, in itself, is a decision. Except I am not comfortable with not having a plan, with not knowing what we’re going to DO next. I don’t know if we’re going to walk away, or if we’re going to screw up the courage to go back and do another cycle.
And it’s silly, really. Because there’s no earthly REASON why I NEED to have a plan, a decision made. Those embryos are not going anywhere. Lucky and Mythical #2 will already be nearly 6 years apart in age – we already forfeited the “playmate sibling” timing. What’s another few months, a year? It really doesn’t MATTER.
So I’ve been spending my time trying to figure out why I am so anxious and uncomfortable without having a plan. I don’t really have any ideas, either. I just know I don’t like the Not Knowing what we’re going to do, and I really want to DO something.
Except I can’t do it right now.
I have this sense that it’s really GOOD for me to be in this place. Because always, with my life, I’ve always planned what’s next, and you know, life doesn’t always work that way. The best laid plans, and all. And the fact that I’m uncomfortable suggests to me that there’s something that’s deeply rooted in me that drives me to manipulate my life whenever I feel uncomfortable.
So I’m sitting with this anxiety. Not happy about it, mind you, but I’m curious.
What happens if I just sit here and don’t decide?
A few years ago, I joined a fitness board called dailymile. At the time I used it to log my miles, my training for my half marathon. I liked the idea of having a place to keep my training online.
Over time, I realized that it was kind of like Facebook for people who loved to run and cycle and swim and work out. And I started accepting friend requests, then sending them out myself.
There was this one girl, though, who I felt a real kinship with. She ran HUGE mileage every week, because she was anxious and type A and needed the release of a run. And she was honest about it; talking about how she had to get on the treadmill at midnight to keep away the anxiety.
Turns out she was going through a divorce, and though she never talked about it until after it was over, all those miles were to keep the pain at bay.
I said in my last post that all my coping mechanisms weren’t working. Which isn’t fully true. The release I find in physical exertion is very real right now. It’s the one thing that can right my world when I can’t handle the anger or pain anymore. And I’m happy to find that it’s not just running right now; it’s cycling and strength training and stair climbing and running and swimming.
Which is good, because I am not the kind of runner who can only run and not do anything else – otherwise I get injured. I need the crosstraining and strengthwork if I want to run the kind of miles I want to.
Anyway. This girl on dailymile has been blogging lately. And her post today was about waiting.
And the brilliance of it can be captured in one sentence: I know that healing happens in the waiting.
I know this is a revelation to most of you… but I don’t have a lot of patience.
(yes, that was said with sarcasm.)
It’s just because I’m tired of feeling like shit and I want to move on. I want to find a place where this doesn’t hurt so much, where a question – only one child?- doesn’t hurt so much. I want to be in a place where I am truly at peace with the life I have now, IN the here and now. I fear a future where I look back and regret not being more present because I was hurting.
I am so tired of feeling Stuck, of longing and wanting for something I do not have.
That’s my overwhelming feeling, honestly. Tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of trying to cope. Tired of the whole battle against infertility. Tired of hurting.
And it’s because I’m tired that I’m trying to DO something to Get Over It. Like, you know, there’s something I can actually DO to cope, some training program where I can run my miles and do my exercises and get through the Suck of it all.
But the thing is. Healing happens in the waiting.
So I wait.
And a note to you all, my dear readers. I loathe the posts where I pour my grief into the computer. It’s why I’ve been quiet, because I keep telling myself I need to post about ALL of my life, not just the stuff I don’t have. I do have moments of love and happiness and contentment, where I really do believe that I’m going to come out of all of this Suck a stronger person for it.
It’s just overwhelmed with all the stuff I’m trying to work through – it’s a lot to process all at once.
Anyway. I wanted to acknowledge – and thank you all – for abiding with me, especially since I’ve been a not-great blogger and an even not-greater commenter lately. I love you all and want you to know that your comments, emails, texts, and presence have helped me immensely since the fall. So. Thank you.
For those of you who have checked in, thanks.
I’m not sure how many times I’ve opened up a new post, seen the emptiness on the screen, sat here and TRIED to write something, and then clicked away.
I wish I had something brilliant, wise, deep, emotional to say.
Truth is I’m struggling. I am up or down, with little middle ground.
I have days where everything feels easy and light and I am HAPPY I have no hope of another child left, because how could I want more than what I have? I have my son, my husband, and I get my baby time with my nephew and my best friend’s son and I get to give them back and go home to a blissful night of sleep. I go away for the weekend to the Bahamas with my husband, on his company’s dime, and we reconnect, and I rediscover the myriad reasons I married him in the first place. I run and have lost weight and feel amazing – the first time I’ve actually LIKED seeing myself in a mirror.
And then we get the question, at the company party. How many kids do you have? And then people are talking about how HARD it is to juggle schedules with so many kids, and how they gang up against their parents. And I want to shut them up with the bitter truth: we’re done with one, but not by choice. I want to stab them with our reality: all of the cycles, the Fail, the losses, the fact that as much as we WANT to bring another soul into this world, it isn’t going to happen.
I am still so angry. Angry at the universe, angry at Charlie, angry at myself, angry at everyone who gets to complete their family, angry with the people who have found peace in their family building, angry with my mother, who must have done SOMETHING when she was pregnant with me to create the deformity in my uterus. Angry at everyone and everything.
The difference now is that I can see clearly: this anger is useless. It’s protection, my shell. And it doesn’t help me anymore. My old habits, the ones who helped me cope over the years, aren’t working any more.
I hate being so angry, I hate myself even worse for lashing out at people. And every time I dismantle my Inner Critic, I’m left with nothing but grief. Sadness. Longing. Pain.
Only way through it is through it, my therapist keeps telling me. So I’m wading through it as best as I can: being kind to myself when I need it, being kind to my family when they need it more than me, running and working and hoping that I’ll eventually work my way out of this place.
We will likely never have another child.
I need to find peace.
I just don’t know how.
Thank you, all of you, for the love and comments yesterday.
That I could write that post yesterday, I knew, meant that I was finally coming out of the funk I’ve been in for the past few weeks.
The thing is, I’m getting it from everywhere. There’s my new nephew, who seems to be affecting me far more than any of the babies that have been born in the recent past. Part of it is proximity, I know. But I think some of it is also because there’s family resemblance – it’s not hard for me to see him as my own. My ghost child. It’s this weird physical need – I HAVE to hold him.
And that disconnect: he’s not mine. I have no claim over him other than being his aunty. I can help my SIL by holding him and allow her to eat, or hang out with the older kids, but I can’t NEED him. That’s not right.
There’s also work, which is really not going very well right now. The woman for whom I work is due with her baby in two weeks, and she’s pushing me to finish work this week – WITHIN a set of budget constraints. And that pressure is tough enough. But when she reviews my work, all bets are off. Documentation she passed in June without any comment – and so I figure I can do the EXACT SAME TESTING for my update work – she all of a sudden has issues with. And she wants everything done in that moment – so I’ll be working on fixing something and then fire questions at me about a different control, since you know, she’s moved on. And THEN I get the lectures about missing something: We really have to make sure that we [the opposite of whatever it is that I fucked up].
I have mentioned before I am not naturally an accountant, right? So I need to be sure of my facts before I can answer her questions. I can’t go fast, because I will miss something. And yes, I’ve told her this. Her answer is always: We just need to get these cleared right now.
These reviews make me feel incredibly stupid and lumbering. I just can’t keep up with her rapid fire questions. And I can’t handle the fucking LECTURES. No, you’re right, I DIDN’T write the test period dates in the excel spreadsheet. You’re right, I missed it. Fucking CHILL, lady.
And then there’s the stress of Christmas coming up, and trying to make it magical for, you know, the kid I DO have, and the fact that I took on handwriting all my Christmas cards this year because last year I felt like our picture cards were so IMPERSONAL. Except, you know, it takes TIME to do that shit. So with Charlie traveling and my work deadline, I don’t really have time to do it. And, oh yeah, I need to wrap the presents I DID buy, and we still have people on the list for which I haven’t bought anything, and OMFG CHRISTMAS IS IN TWO WEEKS.
And my training. Running is one of the few things that is going well right now; I felt so good, physically, last week, that I asked my coach if we could step it up a bit. Which he readily agreed to. But that means this week, physically, I’ve been sore and tired.
But I haven’t been able sleep, you see. Insomnia – likely from the stress of the above – has made me toss and turn for the past week or so.
Writing yesterday: a release.
And I have today to finish my testing, which I *THINK* might be doable, even though I’m missing Lucky’s daycare Christmas show today. (Thank goodness Charlie can go, but yeah, there’s a LOT of guilt that I’m ALREADY missing his school shows and he’s not even in school yet!)
And last night, for the first night in I don’t know how long, I slept the whole night. Without waking, or worrying about Lucky, or having a hard time falling asleep. I got into bed, fell asleep, and woke up just before my alarm. And today, I don’t feel stressed out, or anxious, or scared, or hopeless, or numb. I feel sort of wrung out, but in a good way. Like I’m going to be okay.
I am going to be okay. This is my mantra when it gets to be too much. But today I actually believe it.
I am going to be okay.
I held my new nephew last night. Twice; once so that my SIL could finish her dinner before she went to feed him, where he vacillated between tired and hungry, in and out of sleep, searching my arm for food.
The second time, after she fed him, sleepy and cuddly, his mouth open in a perfect O.
Oh, he’s so gorgeous. So little. So dark (just like Lucky was). So sleepy. So cuddly.
I looked up at Charlie, who was watching me, and we exchanged looks of shared pain.
This is so fucking hard.
I’ve been thinking about other options ever since meeting with my RE. Okay, so she thinks my uterus might be
completely jacked up presenting a problem for implantation.
Surgery COULD be an option, but she does not feel like it’s worth it to attempt. And frankly, I agree with her.
What about surrogacy? Adoption?
My feelings about our options are incredibly mixed, and I can’t sort through them enough to come to any sort of resolution on them.
And right now Charlie isn’t really open to either one, though I am reading into our discussions that he’s mixed as well. I suppose if I pushed the issue we’d both come to a decision that we’re okay with.
I didn’t think it was possible to have less hope than I did before going into this last cycle. But apparently it IS possible to have negative hope. Anti-hope.
I might have better handled a chromosomal issue with the embryo. Since meeting with my doctor, though, I have been struggling.
I know there are no FACTS, that my doctor could only theorize, why we’re not getting pregnant. But you need to understand, I have had questions for so long as to the REASON why our cycles keep failing.
We have gone through nearly 20 embryos over the years. And that’s nearly twenty BEAUTIFUL embryos: the ones that were rated highest by my clinic.
I have felt for years now that my body actively tries NOT to be pregnant. I felt, when pregnant with Lucky, that I had slipped one in under the radar. I was never comfortable, not for one DAY, when I was pregnant. It felt unnatural; he was breech and stuck in my rib.
And then, the two times I’ve gotten pregnant since: miscarriage.
So to hear that my doctor believes that my uterus has some hand in all this Fail… well, honestly, I think she’s right. I FEEL like she’s right. I’ve known, felt, believed this for years now.
And I don’t have the words to describe the utter loathing I feel about my body as a whole, feeling this.
I have a hard time putting the reasons why into words. But it has to do with the fact that my body cannot perform one of the most basic biological tasks of humankind – nuturing a human.
And that’s why running, right now, is not a salve for this ache. Because it’s not the same.
Running marathons will not change the fact that my body is not made for making babies.
Last week, when I went to pick Lucky up from school, there was a large sheet of paper on the wall, where they usually put their class projects and decoration for the seasons. It was a classification chart.
The question was: How many people are in your family?
The buckets for classification were simple: 3, 4, and 5.
The most kids were in the 4 Bucket – 8 or 10 kids wrote their names there. There were a few kids who had written their names in the 5 Bucket.
Lucky was the only one in the 3 category.
It was unexpected, a punch to my soul. I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and I fantasized about pulling the sheet down and ripping it up.
But I wanted to know how HE felt about it. So on the way out, I pointed it out and asked about it.
And he said, Mommy, I really, really wanted everyone to say ‘Three!’ like me. I wanted the number 3 to win.
I told him that he did win, because he was the only kid who had three in his family, that he was special. And I asked him, Did you know that three is a lucky number?
He hadn’t known that.
I hadn’t heard his teacher coming up the stairs, so when we turned the corner, she was there. And she told Lucky, Did you know that I have three in my family too?
It’s awful, but my first thought was, For now.
I know her son is young: 3.
For now, I’m trying to get out of bed every morning, do my work, parent my almost 5 year old, be a good wife, keep things going with Charlie is traveling.
For now, I’m hopelessly behind on Christmas cards and present-wrapping and making sure that we’re bought for everyone we need to buy for. Oh, and bills, too.
For now, I’m trying to focus on my training program and race schedule for next year and snatch some Zen in the moments where I find them on my runs.
For now, I’m trying to survive this awfulness, the babylust that holds me prisoner, the ache of wanting a sleeping bundle in my arms, catching the scent of baby in my dreams.
For now, I’m just trying to get through one day at a time.
One hour at a time, one moment even.
That’s why I haven’t been posting. Because who really wants to hear my pain? How many times can you all, my readers, comment, I am so sorry, Serenity?
And truly. How many times have I written these same goddamn posts over the years, the longing, the frustration, the pain, the body loathing?
It’s the same fucking story, over and over and over.
And over, for good measure.
Except it’s NOT over.
It’ll never be over.
I am so tired of pain, of longing, of this story. I want off this goddamn ride, where I go from hope to fear to pain to hopelessness to even more hopelessness.
I want this to end. I want to be DONE, I want to move on. I want this pit inside me to be full of the things I DO have, the love that I have in my life.
I loathe this empty yawning ache, and I cannot be rid of it.
… our weekend is over and it’s December.
It was a great weekend; filled with trips to the zoo and musuem of science and industry and chaos and fun and four-and-five-year-old-Drama and hand-drawn pictures with markers and dance parties until midnight and early mornings and too much food and wine.
We left Charlie today. It was hard to walk away and go into the airport without him. But he’ll be home on Thursday, and is home with us for a whole week… then only has ONE more week in Ohio before he’s done for good.
And I arrived home today to a letter from my RE about our cycle and her recommendation. Which we largely discussed already, so there’s really nothing new in there. It does, however, call out specifically the “11mm septum remnant,” which suggests that my RE believes that I don’t actually have a bicornuate uterus, it’s septate and I still have a little over a centimeter of septum left in there.
And my SIL had my new nephew over the weekend. He’s adorable from the pictures I’ve seen and I’m hoping we’ll get to visit her this week.
I think I’m in Fallout Mode right now. Literally not even a SECOND after I think, I am so thankful our life is simple, I am kicked in the gut with longing. Bitterness. Jealousy. Loss.
These seem to be the pills I’m trying to swallow lately.
And I don’t know why it’s eating me up like this: the idea that it really IS my uterus that is the cause of our failures.
I loathe my body for it.
And I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. I have lost all hope in having another baby; I don’t even know if I have it in me to even try again.
But there is no peace.
Yesterday Cece had a great post about the phrase “get over it,” whether it be something small like a breakup or losing a job… or something big like losing a child, or a spouse.
And I love her point: that grief is woven into the fabric of her life. That image stuck with me most of the day yesterday.
I told you a while back that I am (was?), in a lot of respects, emotionally stunted. The fact of the matter is that I grew up in a house where we weren’t really allowed to have emotions. Therefore, I never really learned how to handle the emotions associated with stuff that was bad.
So I’ve spent years avoiding the bad feelings, and hoping for a life where I was happy: where no bad feelings ever touched me ever again. I guess I just believed that real happiness made it so that the bad stuff didn’t touch you. Or something.
It’s just recently that I’ve discovered that’s not the case.
Case in point: After my meeting with our doctor on Friday, one of the things I came out with was a deep sense of thankfulness. Because it feels like she reminded us just how lucky we were to be parents in the first place.
I used to say that in bitterness, by the way. Well, I guess we got really lucky once. Insert deep sarcasm, with a shrug of my shoulders to hide the pain.
But Friday? I said, out loud: Wow, we got really lucky.
It’s a focus thing, I think.
I can spend my time focused on the unfairness of our infertility, angry with my body for ‘failing,’ jealous of families that get to complete their family, angry at people who don’t understand the depth of our loss…
Or I can focus on the family I have now, the happiness I feel in the moments where Lucky writes his name, or draws me a picture, or throws his arm over my neck at night and says, Mommy? I really love you.
This week is Thanksgiving in the US, and it marks the start, for me, of the Christmas season. And Christmas, for me, is about family, and love, and happiness, and thankfulness. (Probably part of why I was so angry with my mother for skipping Christmas this year. Goes against what this season means for me.)
Last month’s loss – and the uncertainty it brings for our future – is woven into the fabric of our family. And as much as I ache for another child, I am so very thankful for the family I have today.
That is something worth focusing on.
Before bed on Friday night, Lucky was complaining that his legs hurt. My BONES hurt, Mommy! he said.
Growing pains, I figured. I offered him some tylenol, which he took. He went to bed with no issues.
It’s really rare that he wakes overnight, but that night he was up twice – once at 11:30 when he said, I heard something loud outside! Our next door neighbor’s daughter, a senior in high school, had a party last night for Homecoming, and when someone left the music was blasting. It woke me up too. He settled easily though.
At 3:30, though, his throat all clogged with tears, he told me his stomach didn’t feel good and his arms AND legs hurt. And when I climbed into bed to lay down next to him, he threw his arms around me and said, I love you so much, Mommy. You take good care of me.
Lying there in the cold (seriously, freaking COLD) room, watching my son fall asleep, it seems like such a miracle that we have him. Seriously, the shit that needed to align in the universe to put him into my arms boggles my mind.
And I find myself being thankful that the losses I’ve had were AFTER him. Because getting that news on Friday, that our doctor suspects that perhaps there’s still a structural issue with my uterus which is causing losses… I can’t imagine how I would have handled the news prior to becoming a mom.
I mean, it fucking sucks, no two ways about it.
But at the end of the day, I feel differently now. I am no longer willing to go through hell to get my baby (though I could argue that what we’ve dealt with the second time around could be construed as hellish. Three fresh cycles, four frozen cycles, two pregnancies, two losses. Yeah, not so “easy.”) – where I was before.
That awful fear is gone too. I used to wonder: what if I don’t DESERVE a child?
I am a good mother. Not perfect, of course. I’m probably more permissive than I should be, because I have a hard time sometimes enforcing boundaries when there’s a reason not to. I yell a lot more than I want to. I don’t particularly like playing with Lucky, because he makes up these rules and I have to do exactly what he says. (He’s kind of a kid tyrant, really. I mean, honestly, I don’t get to win ONCE? I always have to have the slowest car, plane, etc? *sigh*)
But I listen to him. When I’m mad and he cries and tells me I NEED YOU TO GIVE ME A HUG! I am quick to hug him and remind him I love him all the time, even when I’m mad. I apologize when I’m wrong, or misjudge him. I see him for the person he is – separate from me, with different ideas and opinions.
And in moments like last night, when I’m filled with thankfulness that he’s in my life, and my love is so huge it nearly swallows me whole, I have this clear, definitive belief that we will be okay, the three of us.
We are all we need.
Really, at this point, the emotional costs of doing another cycle are sky high.
But we’ll do it, because we have three embryos left in the freezer. They don’t represent hope, not really.
Mostly I can’t walk away without knowing if one of them will be our Mythical #2.
So really, there’s not much of a decision to MAKE. Take a break, then go back and do one last cycle.
The good news is that I found real peace during our break in 2011. I am looking forward to finding that place again.
The pathology report: chromosomally normal female.
All other miscarriage tests came back negative.
My doctor was surprised to see that; she said she would have put money on a chromosomal issue. So her theory is that the loss was related to the known issue with my uterus, the 1-2 millimeters at the top that isn’t normal. And she told me couldn’t tell for sure, but since the embryo’s position was at the top of my uterus based on the ultrasounds, maybe it implanted in JUST the wrong place.
It’s not worth the risks of doing surgery on again, though she thinks. If we were talking 3 or 4 millimeters? Sure, yes, definitely worth it. But she said Dr. HIT wrote a great report on my resection and that she really didn’t think they’d have much to resect if they went back in. It certainly wasn’t worth the risks of anesthesia and uterine perforation, as well as the chance of scarring.
So maybe the embryo just implanted in the wrong place.
Or maybe it was just bad luck: there’s plenty of embryos that are chromosomally normal and don’t develop normally and result in miscarriage.
She didn’t believe there was any reason to change her recommendation of what’s next: another thaw cycle.
And she was great when I told her that Charlie and I were thinking of a break, to digest everything, and that I wanted to run a marathon next year. I didn’t know it, but she’s a former marathoner herself; so we talked about running a bit, swapping stories.
I left feeling exactly the same way I went there.
I was hoping maybe there was a chromosomal issue with the embryo. But the spotting presented itself EXACTLY THE SAME WAY as it did in November 2010 when I lost that pregnancy, too. And I couldn’t shake the feeling it was an issue with ME, not with the embryo.
My uterus has given us problems for, well, 7 years now.
It’s kind of pretty much what I expected to hear from her. That my case is frustrating because there’s no reason our cycles SHOULDN’T work, but they don’t.
And I’m left wondering what’s next, if anything. Cycling has felt more and more like gambling over the past few years. Gee, let’s roll the die and see if we can get pregnant!
And then to add into it the unknown that if we actually DO get pregnant, there’s a chance the embryo could have implanted in the “wrong” spot and I might lose it? Yeah, let’s just say it doesn’t make me excited to run out and cycle again.
See that brick wall you’ve been running into over and over and over again, Serenity? We just reinforced it and made it bigger and wider! Yay!
I suppose the good news is that we don’t need to do anything now. Nothing has really changed in the course of a day, just based on our meeting. We can keep on this break, I can keep focusing on my training and other things, and we can see where we feel over the course of time.
I am not broken. I will survive this.
Just hurts right now, that’s all.