I’m… pregnant?

I took the pregnancy test. If we were about to embark on more fertility treatments, in the form of an embryo transfer, I couldn’t allow myself to be triggered by a simple pregnancy test before we even start. So, a few days after my last post, I bought an 88 cent test from Wal-Mart. Predictably, it was negative and I was… okay. I had no expectation of any other result and was just annoyed with myself for wasting a dollar.

I’m not a frequent visitor of the infertility community, at least not for my own support. I have occasionally read about other’s struggles to remind myself that I’m one of the lucky ones, though. While it was truly crushing to find out that Jake’s sperm count was so low the urologist used the phrase “miracles happen” in regards to our conceiving naturally, our journey was a sprint, not a marathon. One year after receiving that devastating news, after two rounds of IVF, we were snowed in, painting our girls’ nursery and celebrating Valentine’s Day. We weren’t only thanking God for one baby, but two. As far as IVF goes, we had it easy. If the next transfer didn’t work, if none of our six frozen embryos ever took, it would be okay. We have our girls and they have each other. For many people, our family is the perfect size. When I think about all that infertility has taken from us, it helps to remember that.

All that infertility takes from a couple is a frequent theme in the community. It ruined our sex life for well over a year, as I’d often burst into tears after being together, knowing it would never make a baby. It cost us over $30,000. It ruined the chance of ever being surprised by a pregnancy. It caused unending stress until the moment I held my girls in my arms, which undoubtedly contributed to my developing perinatal cardiomyopathy and severe pneumonia, losing over half the blood in my body and nearly dying. That marred the first several months of my girls’ lives, as I constantly worried that I wouldn’t be around to see them grow up and, like me, they’d have to face life without a mama.

After all these losses, it seemed trivial to be disappointed that I’d never get that moment, when I could share my pregnancy with Jake. We’ve been watching Friday Night Lights, typically a Belle Show, but one he can enjoy having grown up playing football in rural Texas. Over the last few months, I’ve watched the scene where Tami tells Eric she’s pregnant at least a half dozen times, because that is exactly how Jake would react. That’s not a moment I would ever get, instead bonding over the far less romantic administration of subcutaneous shots and appointments to monitor my uterine lining. Reading the stories of others’ journeys, though, I could remember that it’s okay if I missed that moment, because there are so many far more precious ones I might never have experienced.

That was why it was so hard to talk myself into taking that pregnancy test. It hurt knowing I’d never have that moment and I feared it would crush me. While I didn’t experience the emotional breakdown I feared, it felt idiotic to take another one after two more weeks without a period. Obviously my cycle was still regulating. My girls aren’t even a year old. Despite being desperately worried for my health if I chose to pursue another pregnancy, my OBGYN had assured me that she was fine with my not being on birth control, since Jake’s sperm count was under a million the last time it was checked, so it made sense that it would take time for everything to regulate naturally.

Still, I needed to call the infertility clinic with day one, so I could schedule my transfer and I was eager to do so before I chickened out, knowing another pregnancy would be high risk after my troubles during delivery. The nurse had warned me that I’d need an ultrasound to test for a cyst if I didn’t get my period soon, so I begrudgingly decided that I’d make that appointment after our anniversary/Mother’s Day weekend. I didn’t want to ruin our fifth year and my first Mother’s Day with infertility drama. On Thursday, however, I was beginning to feel queasy and worried that I’d be sick over the weekend. I figured I needed to test once more before making the appointment anyway, if only to save myself the trouble of doing so at the clinic. I went to Dollar General, bought another $1 test and a can of soup, so I didn’t feel like I was completely wasting my time just purchasing another test.

When I got home, I quickly took the test, knowing I needed to put the girls down for their nap and sat playing with my phone while I waited a minute or so for the results, worried that I was somehow starting early menopause. I knew a negative test after a minute was likely a negative test after three minutes, but… it was positive.

Another staple of the infertility community is videos of women taking pregnancy tests, hoping to capture that moment when they get a positive, so they can share it with their children one day. I wish I could say that I’d have such a heartfelt moment about which to reminisce, but I don’t think that would be appropriate.

Carol Brady I ain’t.

“What the fuck?!?! That is not possible.”

I called Jake at work, breathing so hard I thought I’d pass out.

Me: “Do you have to stay at work?”
Jake: “Um… I don’t know. Why? Are you okay? What’s wrong”
Me: “I don’t want to tell you over the phone. Can you just come by for a minute?”
Jake: “Okay. I’m leaving now.”

I immediately rushed back to Dollar General, a million thoughts racing through my mind, because this couldn’t be true and yet, false positives aren’t actually a thing. They’re plot devices in romance novels and TV shows. I bought the last two $1 tests, refusing to spend real money on nothing and raced home to immediately take both. As I hyperventilated, it came to me. Perhaps I’d bought a drug test! I’d been taking mild doses of medical marijuana, via gummy, nearly every night for some time, just to sleep. I rushed to the trash can to check the box, but no. It was indeed a pregnancy test… or rather three and they were all positive.

I was just coming out of the bathroom when Jake got home.

Jake: “Belle, the door’s locked.”
I unlocked the door and sat on the bed.
Jake: “Babe, what’s wrong?”
Me: – clumsily shoved three tests at him –
Jake: “What are these? What? You’re pregnant?”
Me: “I guess so?”
Jake: “That’s… cool.”
Me: “This isn’t possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I haven’t had my echocardiogram yet. I don’t want to die! I don’t want to leave my girls!”

Jake: “Shhh… it’s okay. You’re not going to die.”
Me: “They told me I couldn’t get pregnant! We have frozen embryos to use!”

This doesn’t actually happen, y’all. It’s just a story your well-meaning aunt tells, about how her best friend’s niece tried for years, took medications, did IVF, all for nothing and then, without warning, found out she was pregnant. It’s a story told with all the other well-intentioned platitudes about how you’ll definitely get your baby, even though they know nothing about your situation. If you stop trying and just have faith… you know, because infertile people didn’t pray hard enough. The urologist used the word “miracle” and if my cursory viewing of House is anything to go by, medical doctors don’t throw that word around a lot.

I suppose that’s the only way to explain it: a miracle. Despite my initial reaction and attempts not to get my hopes up… I want this baby. I’m so afraid that the pregnancy won’t be viable, that something will be wrong. The only thing I’ve ever wanted more was my sweet Violet and Scarlett. I worry about the medical marijuana and the heart medication I only stopped taking a month ago. I worry about Jake’s subpar sperm. I worry that I’m further along than I realize. I worry about all the one in a million odds that have kicked us in our asses so far. I’m petrified of getting sick again, of leaving my girls and a new baby, of being chronically ill for the rest of my life, despite getting the all clear from the cardiologist just yesterday.

So there it is… I’m pregnant. I’ll find out for sure what exactly that means in two weeks, but this was my moment. I got the surprise pregnancy and the chance to tell my husband… and infertility still ruined it. I am apparently no Tami Taylor and if this baby and I can stay healthy, I don’t even care.

Here we go again.

Me: “What if I get sick again?”
Jake: “You won’t.”
Me: “Why does it have to be so hard?”
Jake: “Anything worth having is hard.”
Me: “That’s easy for you to say when nothing has ever been this hard for you. Everything has been this hard for me.”

It’s been two years, y’all, but somehow it feels like twenty minutes since Jake and I started our infertility journey. It brought us two beautiful, healthy girls, with severe complications for their mama, but I am so happy. They were absolutely worth it. If you follow my primary blog, you know I quit the job I loved to stay home. Though I’d literally never considered being a stay-at-home-mom before, it’s been amazing and being mama to my beautiful girls has made me whole again. What more could I want? Well… to give more of my embryos a chance at life. That’s what.

When Jake and I started IVF, of course we feared we wouldn’t even get pregnant. After our first cycle resulted in no baby and no embryos to freeze, we were thrilled that our second ended in two to transfer and six to freeze. We wouldn’t only get the chance to have a child, we’d get eight chances. When the first double embryo transfer took, we were elated to be having twins. We’d prayed for both embryos to thrive, seeing them as life, both morally and scientifically. We were over the moon.

Every day with our girls is a wonder and I can’t believe they’ll be turning one in June. I also can’t believe I’ll be turning 35 in September, Jake 38 in October. We’ve always wanted our children to be close in age and I’d say that’s even more true since our first two were twins. We also don’t want to be Old Parents, so here we go with our first frozen transfer. I don’t know if I’m ready, but is anyone ever ready for this?

20 Weeks and an Anatomy Scan

We’ve officially made it to 20 weeks. I’ve been both dreading the anatomy scan and looking forward to having it behind us, petrified that something would go wrong and this would be the moment we received the Big Awful News. Yesterday, however, we saw the high risk doctor, a genetic counselor, and a sonographer to look over every centimeter of our girls and all looks good. That makes this my final post as the Belle of Infertility and I’ll be launching this blog and linking it to my main blog, belleofthelibrary.com. It’s been an awful ride and I can’t say I’ll miss it.

I’m already tired of hearing and reading about how hard this is going to be.

Zetus lapetus, online parents are the biggest martyrs. Note, I did not say “parents.” I know plenty of parents in real life who give realistic and not wholly negative portrayals of their day-to-day life, but online parents seem to be a different breed. Article after article exists about how hard everything is, regardless of all of the modern-day conveniences available to us, such as curbside pickup and online ordering. You can double the negativity for parents of multiples to the extent that I’m not even sure how they have time to write these woeful tales if they’re sooooo swamped and stressed out.

In all fairness, this is not a new phenomenon, so much as a a readaptation of an old one. Since college, I’ve noticed the competition to see who’s busier and more stressed. While I was going through a divorce, working two jobs, and starting grad school, I was also reading about my former French professor’s struggles of teaching and taking her kids to frigging cotillion and still making time for yoga and her latest cleanse. The competition wore me out then and it wears me out now. Yes, the biggest offenders have always seemed to be mothers, constantly comparing the stress of being the SAHM of one child, married to a wealthy oil man, to my generic spaghetti rings and 15 minute leg shaves between jobs, before ultimately staying up until 3:00 a.m. to finish a paper for my MLIS. Everyone struggles and if you have the ability to complain online, you do not qualify for the medal for struggling the most and neither do I! We live in an extraordinarily privileged society and all we do is complain and compare!

I get it. People need to vent and the internet seems to be the primary outlet, but does it have to be the sole commentary and forever a contest? Why are women always competing over who has it hardest?!?! I haven’t even had my babies yet and I’m so tired of all of the warnings from parents (mostly moms) about how difficult my life is going to be, because they have kids and they know, most of which are limited to online, because I can’t leave my house until I get the vaccine. Thanks for the tip, Microsoft Clippy, but I’m not an idiot and I don’t expect any of this to be fun for a long time. Having two newborns at the same time is undoubtedly going to be exhausting and expensive and stressful, but I get to have babies and there is no way that that will be more emotionally, physically, or financially draining than back-to-back rounds of IVF during a fucking pandemic… and if I’m wrong, what is the point of talking about it?!?! Maybe taking care of two newborns will be harder than spending days in bed imagining a life with no children, somehow scraping together thirty thousand dollars to try, or leaving work early to get progesterone shots in the ass every day for ten weeks, knowing it might all be for nothing. If that’s the case, maybe some words of encouragement and positivity might be more helpful than warnings and horror stories.

Quite frankly, if you got to have the children who are giving you such headaches, in the free and fun way, I really don’t want to hear about how tough it will be, because you can’t tell me how it compares to what Jake and I went through to get pregnant. You can’t imagine seeing your husband, who hasn’t cried since his senior year, get misty-eyed when he tells you there might never be babies. You can’t recall putting up the Christmas tree and picturing all the years of watching other people’s children open gifts, while you have none of your own. You can’t fathom a future without sick babies. bed time fights, disastrous family vacations, weird Halloween costumes no one understands, talks about dealing with bullies, sitting through those horrible class plays and concerts, and hearing your child say they hate you for the first time. No one realizes that couples going through infertility aren’t just thinking about all the good things they might miss, but the bad stuff, too. It’s every possible parenting scenario that’s made us cry, because we might never have it. Maybe that’s why, of the surprising number of couples who’ve struggled with infertility that I know, I’ve not heard a single pessimistic comment and the rest usually shut their traps, when I respond with “Better than no babies” I’ve had enough negativity around this pregnancy and I’d really like it if everyone would disperse from the line to say “I told you so” that seems to form around every new mom.

16 Weeks with Named Babies

Jake and I had our first ultrasound with my OB on January 7th, at eleven weeks and two days. It was the first one he was able to attend and it was wonderful for him to hear the heartbeats and see them moving around, since he hadn’t gotten to be a part of pretty much anything, beyond payment. When I asked when we’d be able to tell gender, the doctor verified that we wanted to know and told us she thought they were both boys.

I felt terrible, because I found myself upset, no matter how hard I tried to get excited. I knew how much Jake wanted a boy, but I just really wanted there to be one girl, not just so I could have a daughter, but because I wanted to pass my Gramma’s name (my middle name) on, before she dies. She’s 86 and we’re in a pandemic. While I knew she’d prefer a boy, as she’s always favored my brother, I still wanted her to have that. After we sent off my bloodwork, to check for trisomies and verify gender 100%, I researched how accurate such an early guess could be and overwhelmingly found that it was really too early to tell. Since the doctor had seemed so certain that one was a boy, I just hoped that perhaps the other guess was mistaken. Eleven days after that appointment, I received a call that the trisomies results were negative and we were having two girls.

If I’d been able to choose the genders of my children, or rather had taken the option, because that was a possibility, I’d have decided on one of each. However, always having wanted closer and more plentiful family relationships, I suppose it will be nice for them to be the same gender. They’ll have more in common and share more experiences… and I get to have two little girls. I’ve wanted a healthy, normal mother/daughter relationship my entire life, even if it means being on the other side of it. I get to break the cycles my mother created and be the mom she never was, to not one, but two, little girls. Those little girls each get to have the sister I always wanted, as well. I’m confident that I’d have been able to get there with two boys and was genuinely disappointed when I realized the boy that had been so certain wasn’t coming, but now that I’ve adjusted, I’m thrilled to be having two little ladies and just hope they’re strong and healthy and have no mental or physical issues.

Jake truly is the go-with-the-flow man he claims to be, though. While he never made me feel bad for wishing for a girl, he insisted he wouldn’t be upset if the doctor was wrong and has given every indication of honesty with that statement. The only drama we faced, after the big reveal/correction, was choosing names, as he’d decided over night that he didn’t like any of our previous choices. After weeks of calling them Mando and Grogu or Elsa and Anna, of debating and his vetoing literally every name in existence, we landed on two classic girl names with our grandmother’s middle names. They’re old, as is trendy, but have cute, modern nicknames. For the sake of this blog and the fact that I use only pseudonyms, I’ll refer to them as Violet and Scarlett, both of which were on the table, but ultimately vetoed, because we didn’t like the inevitable Scar and Vi. The actual names have the same number of syllables and sound good together, but stand up on their own. They don’t rhyme and aren’t themed (like colors or flowers). Naming humans is tough, but even that seems to be out of the way.

I’ve yet to share any of this on my main blog and I’m not totally sure why. For starters, I’m not telling the general population the genders until Easter, when we can tell our families, and a few friends read my blog. I did cave and let Jake have his Christmas announcement about the pregnancy (partly because I’ll be clearly showing soon), but he wants to share the genders in person and we’re hoping I’ll have my Covid-19 vaccine by then. It’s more than that, though. I’ve seen the ultrasounds multiple times, recorded them on my phone, so I could watch them later, watched my belly grow before my eyes, and still… I’m terrified that something will happen to my babies, a fear I hear never quite dissipates and I’d imagine that is even more true with IVF conception. So, I’ll keep it a secret from my readers just a little bit longer, since there’s no way I could have done so with anyone who has seen me in person.

9 Weeks and Two Heartbeats

We found out at seven weeks, that not only was there one strong heartbeat, but two. It wasn’t a total shock. It was an accepted risk, when we chose to transfer two embryos and I’m not sorry we did… at the moment. I’ve been through my ups and downs, my moments of remembering that I don’t like children and now I’m going to have two, of acknowledging that I don’t know what to do with one baby. Jake, in his confidence and ignorance, having never had children either, keeps assuring me we’ll be fine… and I suppose we will, but I’ve always been a bit high strung. I told my Gramma after our nine week ultrasound and she’s thrilled. I’ve told a couple of people at work, as well, because I’ve been so sick in the mornings, that I’ve had to keep calling in late.

At this point, I think I might want to keep it a secret from everyone else just a bit longer. I’m so worried something will go wrong and I don’t want to have to make the rounds to tell everyone about it. I just want my babies to be safe and healthy and I want to know that’s the case before telling everyone, but I think they might tell on me first. I’ve been getting really sick and I can already tell I’m starting to show. I suggested telling everyone that I’m just hungover and letting myself go, but Jake has vetoed that plan.

Still Pregnant

My hCG levels doubled properly, at 917.5, which means I’ve been scheduled for my first ultrasound on December 7th. I’ll be 6 weeks and 6 days. Here’s hoping for a heartbeat or two.

Confirmed

They drew blood this morning and on top of my five positive home pregnancy tests (two mid-range and three cheapies), the clinic has confirmed that I am indeed four weeks and one day pregnant… today. I have another appointment on Friday, to see if my hCG (413) is properly doubling and we’ll see if I’m still pregnant then. As much as I’d love to be excited and call up my Gramma and listen to her shriek, I think the most I can muster at the moment is cautious optimism. So many things can go wrong in the next eight weeks. I miscarried at 11 weeks, when I was 21. A friend and coworker miscarried at 10, after IVF. Another friend and coworker found out that her son will be developmentally disabled to an unknown degree, at 15 weeks, after three IUI’s. I’ve told Jake that, assuming all is well, I’m not willing to tell a soul until 16 weeks, when I’ll likely be starting to show… and that’s only because he vetoed my “Let’s just show up with a baby” idea.

On the one hand, I’m sad we can’t be normal levels of over-the-moon right now, like people who get to have babies the fun and free way. On the other, I don’t care about the “experience” of being pregnant. I care about having a healthy baby and a family and this part is just social media fluff… not that I’m on social media.

Don’t get me wrong. So many of my prayers have been answered. We’re pregnant, with six freezer babies… but there are so many more prayers to say. Like most Americans, I’ve grown so accustomed to disappointment in 2020. I can be excited at 12 weeks, when this year is over and I’m well into my second trimester. In the meantime, please, please, please God keep this baby or these babies safe and healthy and let me have an unremarkable pregnancy, ending in a healthy child or two.

Waiting for Confirmation

It’s 5:15 and today was the first day I could take a pregnancy test, with doctor approval. I bought a two pack of First Response tests last week and it has been sitting unobtrusively under my bathroom sink ever since. The night before last, I could barely sleep, I was so anxious. I still feel pretty crummy. The progesterone makes me nauseous and gives me headaches and my abdomen is still swollen.

I spent the majority of yesterday planning for disappointment and the inevitable two days in bed that would follow. I attended the staff meeting, since the other would be offered Wednesday and I finished my weeding for the month, since the end of November sneaks up on you in libraries. We close for Thanksgiving Day and Black Friday and I don’t work the weekend. Weeding requires a lot of bending and lifting small amounts of weight (stacks of books), and it’s taken a toll on my body. My belly feels worse and I was exhausted, so I took two pregnancy approved muscle relaxers around 8:00, with plans to get a full night’s sleep and wake up to test at around 6:00, before Jake went to work.

I woke up at 4:30 and tried to convince myself to go back to sleep. Finally, I admitted that holding it wasn’t going to change the answer and now was the time to face the truth. Half asleep, I went to the bathroom, where I’d gotten the test ready the night before, peed in the cup… and promptly dropped it, spilling half of it all over the bathroom. I grabbed the test with my pee covered hands and tried to open it with my teeth, only to realize there was definitely urine on it, cut it open with some nail clippers, and used what small urine sample was left to test…

… and it was positive. I cleaned the bathroom before I checked the results and, at the sight of two unquestionably pink lines, I ran into the bedroom, turned on the light, jumped on the bed, and woke up a startled Jake.

Me: “It’s positive.“
Jake: ::hugs me and tries to pull me into the bed with him::
Me: “The perk of spilling pee all over the bathroom, when you take a pregnancy test, is that you have something to do while you wait for the results.”

He laughed and hugged me and tried to roll me over for a sweet moment, when he realized I was breathing hard.

Jake: “Are you okay?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m just…” I searched for the right words… “covered in pee.”

So, now I wait until Wal-Mart opens, at 7:00 cuz Covid, to buy ten more cheap tests and have my bloodwork tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I at least have two pink lines and Jake went back to sleep, just like a man.

One Week Wait

A week from today, it’ll all be over. I’m not sure why my clinic seems to differ from the norm, but they test two weeks from retrieval, not transfer. I’m dreading the test. It’ll be the moment when we find out that, once again, this was all for nothing. The money, the shots, the plate I hurled into the sink when Jake touched my donut. The breakdowns, the days I spent in bed, the nausea, headaches, swollen everything, will all be for naught. My stomach still sports a large green bruise and I haven’t even had a subcutaneous shot in over a week. I’m tired and sick to my stomach all of the time and my uterus keeps twinging and I’m doing my best not to convince myself that it means something it doesn’t.

I suppose I’m just that much more hopeful, this time around, since this entire cycle has gone so smoothly, compared to the first. The doctor tried to discourage me from transferring two embryos, because he seemed confident one would work. I bought a test today, so I can take it at home and emotionally prepare myself for the official news from the blood test. I’ve even planned for when I’ll take it, knowing that I’ll have to call into work over a negative result. If I wait until Tuesday, when I’ve been given the go ahead to test, I can drink little to no water and test at lunch, since I’ll telework for the rest of the day and my Netflix Party program won’t require me to be on screen. If it’s negative, I just start my program and resume the catatonic state on the couch that sums up 2020, after informing my boss that I won’t be in Wednesday, after the blood test. I’ll have until 1:00 Thursday to recover before virtual DnD with my teens and if I’m still not up for it, I can cancel.

I suppose my new rhetoric is to try my hardest not to hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. I am just so tired.