Colorado bumps

Why is it the local television personality I’ve seen at my clinic is the only person I “know” at my clinic to give birth to a real live baby?

I see her on the television and silently curse under my breath.

Not that I didn’t want her to get pregnant, mind you, but I want someone I know, someone I actually know, who goes to my clinic, to have success. Yes, I know. CCRM has a million patients and has the stats to prove it does get women pregnant. But where are these women in my life?

And for that matter, why is it only one of our group of Colorado Girls that has undergone recent treatments is pregnant? The rest of us have had miscarriages, negative pregnancy tests, freeze-all scenarios, etc. What the hell?

I guess Nancy’s news is getting to me.

It’s just I’m the type of girl who loves the movies with happy endings. I want everyone to be happy.

And, selfishly, I want to see someone in my more immediate circle, especially at my clinic, have success because then, maybe, I too can have success. Because, by now, I’m horrible at “feeling” who is going to have good news. I swore it would be Denise. I just knew it would be Maryanne. And Nancy, well she was a shoe-in.

No pressure now right Duffy?

Uggh. I am just ready for the good news to start. I am sure it doesn’t help to wake up to a puking dog, who also happened to poop in the kitchen overnight and while putting her out in the backyard I see two cop cars, a firetruck and an ambulance take your neighbor – one of your best friends on the block and the best gossip source for neighborhood news - off on a gurney.

I’m waiting for the good news. Maybe it starts with Friday’s hysteroscopy.

Let’s hope.

What’s Your IF?

To say I still struggle with where I fit in to this IF world and its accompanying acronyms is an understatement.

It’s not about me being labeled with the broadly, over-generalized term of infertile but more so the feeling of me not being worthy of that label.

When I think of those struggling with infertility, I think of individuals with courage, faith, hope and perseverance. I think of their strength in going through multiple cycles with an outcome unknown. I think of their desire, their dreams.

It’s familiar to me. Yet I am not one of you. I don’t deserve to be honored with the label infertile.

But I do love the label Christina came up with for me.

FFTO. Fertility fucked twice over. It’s succinct. It’s concise. It’s true.

And it explains, at least in my opinion, a little more about our experience with IVF.

But it got me thinking. If IF doesn’t define me, does it really define anyone? Aren’t each of our individual experiences, our stories greater and deeper than two letters can express? Or even my newfound four?

If you had to make up an acronym for your experience, though, would you? What would it be?

The Reason Why

In celebration of my first blogoversary, I am looking forward not backward. Instead of a post about what we’ve endured or how much more we have yet to achieve, I wanted to share with you a picture.

It’s the picture I look at to remind myself why we are doing IVF. When I feel sad, jealous or mad, I look at this picture to ground myself, remind myself that there is a reason why we are taking this path.

This is a picture of my hubby. At 20 months of age. His first broken bone. And one ginormous body cast.

It’s this image that pushes me to go forward, to trust that we are taking the right path to parenthood despite all the bumps in the road.

I smile when I see his cute toddlerness lying on the floor amongst his toys.

But I cry when I see his cute toddlerness on the floor amongst his toys.

The start of something…

As kids, my childhood best friend and I imagined a lot of things.

Most importantly, of course, was the fact that ABBA were our parents. My mother, naturally, was Frida – the one with the red hair. Her mother was Agnetha, the one with the blonde hair, like her.

We also had Harr.iet the Sp.y notebooks. Fake names we’d use to send each other mail. Singing 1950s/1960s songs to a choreographed routine.

And this thing. We called it New Life. When we said it, at that moment and going forward we were going to do everything perfect in our lives. We’d say the right things, act the right way, do the right things. Everything in our life would be perfect.

Mind you, we’d have tons of do-overs. Just so we could try and get this “NL,” as we called it, right.

So, in honor of my 12-year-old self, I say NL.

Twenty years later I am not looking for everything to be perfect but for my perfect life. When I think of perfection, I see it as having a family. Not of driving a fancy car or living in a huge mansion. I can drive my crappy Blaz.er and live in my ghettofabulous house. But perfection is being a mom. My husband being a daddy.

Maybe I can throw in a be nicer to everyone clause, give more of myself to others, be better with my eating and save more money here and there in NL. And like before, I’m sure I’ll need a couple mulligans.

It just seemed appropriate that Sunday, with my first period post-miscarriage, that NL – and my hope – needed to be revived.

***

A little housekeeping:

As I mentioned above, my period started on Sunday, which puts me at a 30-day cycle. I am happy to know that my body seems to be getting back on track. With AF’s arrival, I have my hysteroscopy next week. Then, I hope, it start up our next round of IVF with the next period.

I started this post before I heard the news about the death of Ola Brunkert, drummer for ABBA. So I apologize for the bad timing and am very sorry to hear of his untimely death.

Defining and redefining

As my first anniversary of this blog approaches, I can’t help to think about how I am still waiting for parenthood. Yet it is such a different wait.

Last year, I was frustrated with my first-ever abnormal pap. It pushed back by months the start of our first cycle, our first time ever trying to conceive. But I was still hopeful. I thought the pain of seeing my friends easily get pregnant while I had to wait would be the worst of it.

I thought that was what pain was.

My experiences with losing pregnancies though have redefined what pain is, was and will be measured by.

I don’t know how to describe or quantify the pain, even to myself at times. It seems to swallow me up and leave me looking at myself as an outsider. I have pity for that girl and also admiration for her perseverance in going on.

But I know, deep down, it’s not if but when.

And it’s waiting for that when that trips me up, consumes me and leaves me living for the future and forgetting about my present.

I try to enjoy what I do have – love, friends and family. But it’s hard when it seems that who you define yourself as is so tied in to who and what you want to be.

How do you redefine yourself? How do you say I am Jen - not the journalist, not the mama wannabe, not the girl who’s lost two pregnancies?

Maybe it comes from moving forward, looking to the future, be it when my period arrives, when we can cycle again or even tomorrow.

I am trying to live each day and to not measure myself by what I don’t have but what I do.

***

And I’m sorry for the giant serving of poopy sandwich.

I’m really not that depressingly sad right now. I’m anxious. I have my next pap at the end of the month and am hoping for a green light. I don’t want a repeat of last year. Or the beginning of this year. 

Once I get my period (this week, maybe?), I go in for the hysteroscopy and then the following cycle we will start again. I do have hope. Maybe it’s all that “third time’s a charm” crap sinking in.

And I do promise to be a better blogger. Making comments. Trying (badly) to be funny in my writing because in person, I think I’m a hoot!