Recovery: day 16

I had my post-op checkup yesterday. When I arrived at my clinic, the receptionist said "Hey Tutti." I don't even need to tell them my name anymore. And in truth, I haven't for a while. It's cool when you are a regular at a restaurant and the waiter sets your favorite drink down in front of you without even having to order. Not so cool when everyone at your fertility clinic knows you by first name. Although, who am I kidding, they are familiar with more than just my first name (hello-everyone-in-the-greater-metropolitan-area-has-seen-my-pink-parts).

The other significant thing that happened within the first 30 seconds of walking into my clinic yesterday was perhaps the true explanation behind everyone knowing my name. I watched as the receptionist stood up to grab something. I actually saw her arm dip from the weight of it. If I had to guess, it probably exceeded the 10 pound mark. I stopped, it registered, and then I asked, "Is that my chart." It was. I am now one of those  patients that you can give pitying looks to solely based on the girth of her medical records.

The irony of yesterday being my first due date and seeing my all too empty ute on the u/s monitor was not lost on me. But I held it together and didn't cry. For about 5 minutes. Then I let out big ugly sobs when Dr. D asked me how things were going. At least I wasn't already tear streaked before she walked into the room this time. Baby steps.

Apparently I'm recovering nicely from the D&C. I can't say that I didn't have niggling fears about having these two surgeries so close together. Scarring is always a potential issue, as are things like punctured organs, and left over 'material'. But my RE has mad skillz and things are back in order again. Or are they?  <--see what I did there? I know this post is long and that is a hook to get you to read to the end. #trickygirl.

While Dr. D scrutinized my barren womb, she talked me through what she saw. "Nice thick lining Tutti," she said "and it looks like you are..." we finished the sentence in unison, "ovulating". I already knew that I was. I'm a good infertile and analyze my TP all day, every day. And the night before there were tell-tale signs. If nothing else, I've gotten very in tune with my body over the last two years.

Want to hear the kicker? I've got two nice follicles growing: 16mm and 17mm. One on each side. Let me remind you in case you've forgotten, I'm not on any meds. Not that I didn't know it wasn't a potential given my family history, but I thought my sister was the only one lucky enough to have the natural twin gene (I have uber delicious twin nephews).

Clearly my body really wants to have a baby. It's throwing double follicles on its own now. But, the writing is already on the wall for those two beautiful orbs. I'm benched. Again. For at least two cycles. And truthfully, it'll probably be even longer (a story for another time).

However, I'm very confused about something, After my u/s I had bloodwork: Tsh, Hcg, estradiol, and progesterone. My nurse called with the results yesterday afternoon. After hearing them I hung up the phone, completely befuttled.

1. My progesterone came back at 2.20. And since it was above 1, my RE feels that I have already ovulated and can expect my period within the next two weeks. But... umm... we just saw two follicles sitting pretty in my ovaries not 5 minutes prior. Huh? 
2. And, my Hcg came back at 55.18. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that you can't cycle until your Hcg is back down to zero. Double-huh? 

You'd think that a girl with a chart the size of mine would understand this shit by now. But I don't and I'm *really* not in the mood to consult Dr. Google. He's a liar anyway. Maybe you self-proclaimed science geeks (yes Cristy, I'm looking at you) or others with more knowledge than I, can enlighten me. Any guesses to what is really going on?

Recovery: day 13

The day we found out we lost the heartbeat, I was standing at the bus stop on my way to meet Mike for a Broadway show that had been scheduled months prior. Being out in public was hard. People flitted by, laughing and all dressed up in their Halloween best. I looked down at my very un-festive outfit: jeans and a light gray sweater. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I thought about how this journey has ruined so many holidays that were formerly filled with so much joy. And how I now have new associations, each tainted by my infertility. It's unfortunate that bad days now seem to outweigh the good.

The bus was late. Traffic was bad. I leaned against the building under the weight of the D&C I had scheduled for the next morning. At some point I looked up (something I've struggled to do lately).

I'm not very religious. If there is a god, he hasn't been very kind. But sometimes I feel like there are signs. I don't know from who or from where, but they always seem too perfect to simply dismiss. This happened after my last loss too (which is a story for another time) and left me trying to catch my breath. But that day when I looked up to the sky and saw a fluffy white heart floating there, it was difficult to rationalize away. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe I was reading into it, or maybe it was there for a reason. Regardless, I will carry it with me.

It may have seemed that I've fallen silent lately but I promise you that I've read every word that you all have written. I've been traveling for work and commenting from my phone is infuriating and ultimately proves fruitless. I'm back home now and eager to resume my regular habits.

Recovery: day 5

The D&C went as well as something like that could go. I'm still sore and bleeding but slowly mending. Physically at least.

I just want to thank you all again. Your comments, emails, texts, gifts- all have given me that push I need to make it on to the next day. I firmly believe that this community is like no other in the world. The amount of support and caring has been overwhelming. I've found myself suffering from insomnia these last few weeks and often find myself at my computer in the dark hours of the morning, knees tucked to my chin, reading and rereading all your compassionate words. As the glow of my computer screen illuminates my tears, I imagine the embraces that you've all sent. It helps with the pain until sleep finally finds me.

I missed a big day the other day. Last Friday was the year anniversary of this blog. I wanted to write, but my friends were here and I was doped up on vicodin for most of the weekend. So though I'm reflecting a few days late, the sentiment is still the same.

This time last year I was nearing the end of a tww after my first IUI and 3rd round of Clomid (which turned out to be a failed cycle). I was scared and trying to protect my tender underbelly with anger and distance. I was asking the 'why me?' questions. I was stomping my feet at the universe like an angry little girl. But for as scary as that time was, I had no idea how much more brutal it would become in the following months.

Not one of us that is still enduring infertility ever thought we would still be here after so much time. In the back of our minds we all thought that this road to hell would have ended by now, the pain rewarded with a dream come true. Instead, these last 365 days have brought pain bigger and more devastating than I ever knew existed. I never imagined that in a year I would lose three pregnancies and two babies. Then there are the other casualties: injured friendships and family relationships, lost travel and work opportunities, tens of thousands of dollars spent on doctors/ IF treatments/ medications/ therapy/ acupuncture with zero return, emotional crisis after emotional crisis, physical hardships, depression, and a broken marriage.

This year has left me permanently scarred. I am so very different from the person I was just a year ago. I feel like I've been beaten and abused. For a long time I fought back, bared my teeth and used my claws to defend myself. But eventually it became too much. After almost two years of cruelty, I'm left hunched in the corner wondering how many more blows my captor has in him. I am weak from all the pain and grief. And instead of wondering hopefully where I will be a year from now, I cower at the thought of the future.

Standing still, again

There was no heartbeat today. Appears that it probably stopped a few days ago.

As much as I was trying to prepare myself for this, the extreme 24-7 morning sickness gave me a little hope. I suppose it was just lingering hormones. Or maybe Halloween's ultimate trick.

The D&C is scheduled for tomorrow. I'm familiar with the process. I'll wear my yoga pants and favorite sweatshirt; the one where I can pull the sleeves down over my hands. I'll ask for extra blankets to bury myself in as I wait my turn. I'll cry as they put the IV in my arm and then even more as they fit the mask over my face. Although I'm prepared for it, I don't think this is something you ever get used to. If anything, the pain becomes even more intense.

Standing still, Day 4

I've been feeling very numb the last few days. It's not like I don't know what is going on. Diagnostically I know what happened. I know what the next steps are and that none of it is good. But it has all been processed from a distance. No tears. Just going through the motions. Because I knew once those floodgates opened, there was no going back. I just wanted to delay it for a bit. To not feel like such a disaster for once.

But standing in the shower yesterday morning, I felt it creep in. I curled up on the shower floor and wept. The water didn't wash away my tears, nor did it drowned out my sorrow.

I have my husband. I have my close friends. I have my mom, my family. Dr. D and my nurses. My therapist. The women in my Resolve group. I have you guys. I've shared my story with so many people. I've talked about my feeling ad nauseum. I've written about them at length. I think that I somehow rationalized that if I gave lots of different people tiny pieces of my pain, that it would lessen my own. I was trying to unburden myself. I attempted to spread it out. To thin it.

But I've finally realized that my grief and loss are mine alone. I can't deposit these feelings and then run from them. They shadow me wherever I go. And they are as thick as molasses.

Physically I can do this. I know what I have to do and what the process is. I will go through surgery. Listen to the test results. Sit in Dr. D's office and figure out our next move. I will continue to wait. I will force my body to go through the motions, and it will obey. But emotionally I don't know what the process is anymore. I keep following the same track and when I find myself in the place I started, I don't know what else to do except continue back around. I'm going in circles and it's not working. I can't keep doing this, it's eating me alive. How do you stop the loop? For the life of me I can't figure it out.

I couldn't bare the thought of waiting until Wednesday for my next u/s. And then even longer for the actual D&C. I broke down and called Dr. D yesterday. I was ready to beg and plead to be seen earlier but I didn't have to. She told me to come in this afternoon and that we could schedule the D&C for as early as possible next week. Which is good because I started spotting this morning. I need this horror show to end.

Recovery: day 1

The D&C was yesterday and it's done. But not before my body did half the work its own.

I am in quiet pain now. The violent sobs and lashing out has been replaced with a sadness and stillness that is deafening. I only hope that healing comes swiftly. That I can somehow manage to find hope again. That I can eventually find peace with today.

Comforting a friend in grief has never been something that I've been good at. I've often just hoped that through my silence and quiet prayers, the person just.. knew. That they innately understood that I was there. That they could just feel my love through it all. That's not how it works though. For the person grieving, sadness and pain come from less, not more. It is a lesson I'll not soon forget.

The support I've gotten here has been immense. Overwhelming. The words that you have written saved me. The understanding and compassion got me through to the next day. The acknowledgement that I deserve to feel this pain. This anger. This blackness. That the grief is real. It made me feel human when I felt like I was less than.

For each person that took the time to read and leave healing words. For each person that reached out to a perfect stranger in pain. For each person that had old wounds ripped open yet still offered strength. Thank you. It seems insufficient compared to what you have given me, but it is all I have. And it is important for me to acknowledge what it has meant.

My body is now mending. I just hope that my heart follows suit.