Ready to Talk- Infertility

I feel like I'm ready to talk about the past few years now. I'm coming up on my THREE year anniversary of my first (secret) IVF cycle, so I'm going to start there- with infertility and IVF.

In the dawn of time I was born into a family already scarred by divorce. I was the product of my mom's second marriage and my dad's third. Let that sink in a minute. I've never known a day of my life where my identity wasn't intrinsically associated with the tragedy of a broken family. I wouldn't exist if my mom's first husband hadn't stepped out on her, or if my dad's first wife had been better equipped to cope with his mental illness, or he brave enough to seek treatment. Imagine for a second what it is like to feel branded from your first dim memories of self as an outsider. I never knew my sister's other dad-the one in the desert with the swimming pool. I never knew my brother's other mother- the one with the successful career and the fancy house. I missed them all terribly when they were gone. And I never for one second stopped fantasizing that I would have another family of my own one day that I didn't have to share with someone's other parents.

In college my family life professor said something that changed me forever- he told us we get two chances in our lives to have the "ideal" family- once as a child and once as a parent. I knew in that instant that my job in life was to break the cycle and give my children what I always felt I was missing- a "real" family.

I wanted babies from the second I said, "I do." My fantasy was to have a honeymoon baby and then four more, all three years apart.
But months turned into years and life hit my husband and I hard. Like HARD. Deaths of dear grandparents, our parents on both sides began having just AWFUL problems. Chronic illness. Divorces on both sides of the family. Broken career dreams. And then after two years of non-stop heartache the ugly black label of "infertility" stamped on my forehead... No... Tattooed into my very soul. My diagnosis was PCOS, because I "look" like I have it. My blood tests never matched up. I never responded to any of the PCOS medication. No cysts were visible on ultrasounds.
I spent the next three years choking on herbal remedies, gagging on teas that tasted like hot tar, starving myself to lose the magical thirty percent of my body weight that will supposedly "cure' PCOS, then living through the hell of Clomid- the first line fertility drug that simulates menopause, makes you gain massive amounts of weight, have hot flashes, vomiting, diarrhea, and in my case,  psychosis. Violent mood swings in the middle of searing, white hot, psychotic episodes that at one point sent me hurling out of a moving vehicle because I felt like the tiny space was sucking the air- the life- out of my body and I just needed to breathe- to escape.
A hundred pregnancy tests- am I? Aren't I? Could I be?
No. Always no.
No.
No.
No.
No.
Nooooooooooo!
So, so lonely. Lonely like cold on a dark winter night that steals your breath away. No home I can call home to. No-one I can ask for help. Remember? This is my Real Family, but it's not real yet.

Crying. No, sobbing. Love I have no-one to give to. Anger, fear, sadness, pain so bitter it condenses into material form that comes gushing from my eyes any time I am alone for more than a few minutes. Broken glasses smashed on the kitchen floor because I want to smash ME. It is MY fault!
All my fault. Me and my broken rubbish body.
Shards of glass laying glittering on the floor like my lonliness being laid bare for all to see. But there is no-one to see, except a small step son who never asks why Nana is crying- just lays next to me and watches cartoons as I implode day after day, trying to keep my pain inside so it won't break loose and drown him like my mother's pain had drown me. Be better. He needs better. I'm sorry baby. I just tripped. It was an accident. Everything is going to be okay.
Break the cycle.
Be strong.
Don't give up. Don't give up.
I give up.

No. Don't give up.
Acupuncture needles, more herbs. Forgive yourself. Learn to love life. Maybe travel? It'll happen when you stop trying.

Break the cycle. Stay busy. Try to find roses in the thorns. Wouldn't Rose  be a pretty name? Don't think about it. Be strong for the boy. He needs you. Your kids at school need you. The kids in your Sunday school class need you. Your husband needs you, although his walls are so thick he'll never admit he needs anyone. He's hurting too, isn't he?

Eight and a half years went by like this. Try something new, failure, need a break, try again.

Finally we came to the end like Lewis and Clark looking out at the vast Pacific...  stood looking into the ocean of in vitro. Our life savings. Was it worth it? Nothing else had worked. Would this? Why couldn't I just feel right about adopting? Why couldn't I just be happy staying childless? Why was I putting us all through this? What is so so wrong with me? Why am I so selfish? Why am I always apologizing for wanting a family? Why isn't being a part-time mom enough? I can't justify doing this anymore. I can't live with myself if I don't. Selfish.

They never tell you how much IVF HURTS. You have to inject yourself two to five times a day. The drugs make you sick. They make you really fat. Your hair falls out. Both sides of my bum were covered with bruises so thick I couldn't pierce them with the new needles...
Ovarian Hyperstimulation. I thought I was dying- should have gone to the emergency room. So much pain I passed out from it and woke up unable to catch my breath. Then...
A yes.

Tiny. Fragile, gone too soon. Chemical pregnancy. Miscarriage.

Breathe. Just breathe. We'll try one more time. The last time. It's been nine years and over twenty thousand dollars. This has to be the very last time.

No. We don't know why you're bleeding.

No, you're not having another miscarriage.
You're
Having

Twins.

One Year Older and Wiser Too

I don't want to forget everything that's happened over the past two weeks, so I'm turning once more to my old blog to preserve these memories.
My little baby isn't so much of a little baby anymore; she's turning into a little girl by leaps and bounds.
I've had the privilege of staying home with her for the past two weeks for Christmas Break. It's felt more like a month because of all of the milestones she's met. She started December with three teeth. She's finishing with five, and three more about to break through at any moment. She started December army crawling, she finished it doing a proper correct crawl as well as pulling herself up on anything and everything she could get her hands on. She started December unable to go from prone to sitting. She now moves back and for between the two effortlessly, often carrying her toys. She started December showing no interest in age appropriate toys and games. She still doesn't stack, and she prefers to dump instead of pile, but she CAN put toys into her cookie jar and regularly plays with her "babies" and toy animals. She started December needing to be rocked to sleep. She now goes down for a nap on her own after about five minutes of playing in her crib. She started December unable to communicate beyond a few simple words. She now regularly says "bye bye," signs "all done," and regularly says "yeah." She started December eating primarily baby food and purees. She now eats mostly what the family is eating, reserving her purees to help her get "stuffed" if she wasn't able to feed herself enough of what we ate during our meal time. She started December unable to feed herself anything other than big strings of food. She now effortlessly picks up tiny pieces of food and eats them as fast as she can get her chubby little pinscher grasp into her mouth.
Yup. She's growing up by leaps and bounds. So much growth in so little time. It makes me wonder sometimes how she'd do if she were home all day with me every day, but then again I think of all the lives I can touch as a teacher, and how good I feel getting out a few days a week to do something of my own, and I think that the example I'm setting for her will help her out greatly as she grows as well. All in all, I think we're meeting a good balance (finally) of mommy time, wife time, and me time. Cheers to the New Year. Let's hope that 2015 is just as full of joy and magic as 2014 was.

One Year Ago

I've been really struggling with depression lately. Partly it's because we're FINALLY weaning. Partly the change of seasons. Partly, the drama of having an IVF twin pregnancy that ended in 23/24 week preemies is winding down and now I'm left trying to make sense out of everything. I've been trying to work on perspective. Not getting frustrated with the details left undone and instead, focusing on what's been accomplished. So here's what I'm thinking today.

One Year Ago, 

I was: Suffering from severe PTSD, teaching 8th Grade English in my 8th year at DMS, styling my skinny jeans, losing all my hair, crocheting all day and night, eating breakfast lunch and dinner at the hospital cafeteria, pumping, pumping, pumping, focusing on breathing.

Luis was: acting as mom and dad to Andrei, holding my hand, watching a lot of You Tube videos, building a website, doing EVERYTHING at home, trying to find a way to be happy, sleeping a lot.

Andrei was: bleaching his hair, starting 6th grade/ Middle School, adjusting to the idea of no longer being an only child, struggling with the concept that I was never, EVER home.

Rosie was: having laser surgery on her eyes, developing pulmonary hypertension, bouncing back and forth between the ventilator and the CPAP, moving to an open crib, gaining a lot of weight, quickly, sleeping like 20 hours a day, focusing on breathing.

Now,

I am:  still suffering from PTSD but coping better, teaching 10th-12th grade in my first year at MVHS, back in my maternity jeans (but not bald anymore! woo!), doing OT and PT all day and all night, wondering if I'm going to have time to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, weaning, gardening again, focusing on staying calm.

Luis is: enjoying the new found freedom of having a portable daughter and a wife that can occasionally go places with him, managing online banking at his credit union, helping me get the landscaping put back together, reinstating "Boys Night" with his friends, sleeping a lot less, playing a lot more.

Andrei is: playing drums in band class, realizing that 7th grade means becoming a teenager (and stressing a little over the process), going to YOUNG MEN's classes and activities (and loving it), trying to convince his mom to let him play football, LOVING having a little sister, LOVING having me back at home.

Rosie is: trying so so so hard to crawl and walk, learning to scribble, learning how to open/shut, pick up/drop, feed herself, talk, wave, clap, kiss, and sing, growing teeth like all the time, focusing on staying calm.

I had a lot more I wanted to say, but there were a lot of boogers yesterday and then some coughing last night and my mom brain can't focus on anything besides that. Blogging helps. I it. It's been a wild year.

Happy Birthday, Dear Rosie. Happy Birthday to You!

She loves pears but hates peaches. She likes taking walks but not in the sun,  jumping but not too high,  singing but not too loud. She's head over heels in love with Mickey Mouse, Old McDonald, and Adventure Time. She hates all of the other cartoons.

She can roll but only when she's in the mood to. She prefers to stand. She likes to growl and occasionally squeal. She adores everything sparkly, frilly, and feminine. Her favorite activity is cuddling. If that's not an option, her next choice is kicking.  She smiles & laughs as easily as she cries. Her favorite color is glitter.

 (in this photo she is the same size as the seahorse in the previous photo)

Etherial, mercurial, enigmatic, fragile, unbendable, precious Rosalyn. The Queen of all our hearts. We cherish you,  baby,  and live to see your grin.
Happy Birthday,  love. May there be many more to come!

Auld Lang Syne

As the last few hours of 2013 are drawing to a close I cant help but be glad. It was a difficult year to say the least. Nearly 100 days of full bed rest, giving birth to my beloved twins at barely 24 weeks and then losing my precious Robert so soon after. Five and a half months in the NICU from 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. 7 days a week all while trying to maintain my family, job, and marriage. Desperately trying to will my Rosie well every ounce, speck, and cell in my body when even her doctors doubted she'd pull through. Having a six month old newborn at home and living and working on no sleep. It's been without a doubt the most difficult and demanding year of my life.  So many things have been cast by the wayside and so many new connections made and lessons learned.
One day I may finally sort through it all in my head and write it down. Everything.  The fear, the lonliness, the joy, the pain, the endless monotony of waiting. Perhaps one day I'll come up with the words to describe how it feels to let go of everything you thought you were in control of and hold your breath, waiting for some greater force to intervene when all human effort has fallen short. And then to exhale as the divine steps in.
Until then,  I must simply admit that 2013 was also without a doubt the greatest year of my life, as well. With that,  I leave you with the words of one who said it so much better than I ever could...

Auld Lang Syne

Sweet Little Rose

While I was pregnant with my twins and Bobster was throwing dance parties in three quarters of my uterus every day, my quiet little Rosalyn was huddled at the very bottom, shuddering in fear. I could never quite pin down what she was so scared of. I had an inkling that they'd be born quite early, but I didn't imagine that she'd be born two minutes before the official limit of viability. She came into this world at twenty three weeks, six days, twenty three hours and fifty eight minutes of gestation. I could still have legally aborted her.
She was the first twin. The bigger twin. The sick twin. At three weeks old I learned that they'd had to perform five minutes of chest compression on her to revive her after birth. She was already intubated when she took her first breath.
When she was a day old she was diagnosed with Pulmonary Interstitial Emphysema. Her tender little lungs were being shredded by the pressurized air that was being pumped in to her through the ventilator that was keeping her alive. The only treatment to save her was to collapse the affected lung, paralyze her so she couldn't use it, and wait 72 hours for the tissue to repair itself. Luckily, only one lung had holes. Unluckily, the holes were pretty bad. While paralyzed, she would be given a constant drip of morphine and sedatives to help her deal with the pain and not freak out.
For four days I sang to Bobby and cried next to Rosie. Her oxygen feed crept up from 40% to 80%. I wasn't allowed to touch her. All I could see of her was part of one arm, one leg, and the top of her head. Everything lose was wrapped up in tubes, gauze, and the blankets used to balance her on her side. I didn't even see a picture of her face until she was five days old.
After the waiting period was over, they turned her back over. We waited for two days with baited breath as her collapsed lung slowly reinflated. The holes were back. We would try again.
On June thirteenth, the paralytic was administd. By eleven p.m. She was breathing 100% oxygen and her saturation had slipped down below 80%, the minimum level considerd necessary to avoid brain damage. As we were doing her cares she desaturated into the 60's. Her blood pressure dropped to 24/17. Her nurse rushed to call the doctor as I cradled her in my hands and watched her start turning grey. She was dying. I told her that it had been the greatest honor and pleasure of my life to be her mother, and I hoped she could stay, but if she needed to go I wouldn't force her to stay in a body racked with pain. I said goodbye.
This was the night Bobby's bowels ruptured open. From 11:45-2:00, the greatest neonatologist in this part of the country raced back and forth between my beautiful babies, fighting to keep them in this world. I slept that night in the waiting room, sedated with Percocet, ear plugs in my ears. When I awoke, I rushed in to see my sweet children. Bobby was black and dying. Rosie was pink and full of life. The night before i prqyed tht my babies would be the ones to make the final call whether they lived or died. I wanted them to use their agency. That morning I knew They both had made their decision. She decided to stay, at least for now.
Since then she has undergone treatment for PIE five times. The last time they put her on a heavy dose of steroids that caused her blood pressure and glucose to skyrocket. She was on fifteen different medications, including paralytics, steroids, morphine, insulin, blood pressure regulators, and caffeine. We joked that she was mixing her uppers and downers. She stopped growing.
Despite the pain, anxiety, fear, and countless brushes with death, she has perfectly and impossibly hung in there. Because of her courage, I have hung in there with her too. As she lay dying in my hands that terrible night,  I pleaded with her to fight. I promised her that as long as she was willing to fight I would fight for her and with her. I vowed that she would not have to do this alone.
She is now seven weeks old, the equivalent of thirty one weeks gestation. She is still horribly delayed in her growth, sick in her lungs, and fighting osteopenia. She is here, though, growing, breathing, fighting. In our very best case scenario she will be intubated for at least another month, hospitalized until the end of September or October.
I don't know how long she's bargained to stay with me, but I still promise her daily that her journey will not be a solitary one. I regularly get reprimanded by the doctors, nurses, and other parents for being here too often, too long. I get here at seven a.m., leave at eleven p.m. Nobody is here as much as me. They tell me that i need more balance in my life, that its not healthy to be here this long. I just smile and tell them I have a promise to keep.