A common problem you'll discover among the infertile crowd (and I'm most specifically talking about the infertile individual of the couple) is this feeling as though their body has failed. It's a theme I've noticed over and over whilst reading about the emotional effects of infertility and in talking to a great many infertile women and men. An infert will express disappointment in their body, going so far as to feel their body is less than, useless, and/or betraying them.
I never felt this so acutely as I saw others did. I was aware that my body ovulated improperly. I realized that my body was incapable of getting pregnant on it's own accord. I was frustrated that I couldn't find a quick, easy fix. I just never out and out blamed my body. I felt spared in that, lucky nearly, that I could remain somewhat rational about it - afterall, we take our small victories were we can get them when it comes to the losing game of being infertile and one of mine was that I didn't hate my body.
Still, when I discovered yoga I began to respect my body again. Yoga starts with this lovely mindset that you don't focus on what you cannot do. Instead, the focus is purely in what you're capable of. You can hold a pose for 2 seconds? WONDERFUL! LOOK AT WHAT YOUR STRONG AND LOVELY BODY IS DOING!! And slowly, in celebrating each little thing I was capable of, I started being capable of more and more in the land of yoga. Before long I was not only accepting of my body but very proud of it. I felt powerful and incredibly feminine again - two things that infertility had definitely taken away from me.
I stopped being able to do yoga like I was used to by late March. Infertility treatments really take a toll on my body by adding weight, increasing fatigue, and decreasing stamina. Hyperemesis knocked me out of the game completely and by the time I found a way to cope with it, I had lost a lot of energy and muscle. Pregnancy led me to feeling overly fatigued and incredibly activity intolerant. Still, I managed a few yoga sessions here and there. Getting back into the mindset was nice - the refocus on beauty and capability. I was reminded of how wonderful my body is.
And, I was very proud of the fact that, though my body couldn't get pregnant easily, it seemed to be doing a bang up job of staying pregnant this time around. I gave accolades to this little body of mine for that, incredibly thankful especially knowing that there are too many infertile women that cannot say the same. I felt I owed it to my body on the behalf of so many people and things to specifically celebrate it for that victory.
Yesterday it was discovered that my cervix is much too short and already funneling, an indicator of pre-term birth. A decent measurement for a cervix at my stage of the game (27 weeks) would be at least 3 cm, 2.5 cm on the low end, with good being 4cm. Mine is an unfortunate 1.97 cm. I was ushered into a room to discuss this with the OB, swabbed for a test called fFN (it's a test based on it's negative predictive value. Mine was negative meaning it is 99% likely that I will NOT go into labor during the next 7-14 days), and then sent to the perinatologist for further evaluation. He confirmed the findings and after a short stay in L&D, I was shot up with steroids and sent home on strict bedrest.
I had a hard time last night with being down on myself in a way I hadn't been in a while and mad at my body in a way I'd never been before. It's a bit difficult for me knowing my body isn't doing the bang up job I had been celebrating. It's very difficult for me to be undeniably reminded of the fact that I cannot do well what comes easily and naturally to the majority of women. I admit it's a loss of some identity, a loss of that feminine quality I had come to embrace. I'm not normal and there's just no way around that.
Today I'm going to try to focus on my victories:
-we discovered my short cervix in time to do something about it
-as far as anyone knows, this babe is staying put for at least a couple of weeks
-she's growing strong and well
and I'm going to try to convince myself that this set back and reminder needn't rob me of my beauty, my womanhood, or my femininity. I am still powerful and lovely. We'll see how I do with that.
Showing posts with label trust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trust. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Friday, August 28, 2015
12 weeks later
It's been a quiet 12 weeks for me on the blog front. I've tried several times to make a new post but couldn't figure out how to make sense of all the ways I was feeling enough to put it into coherent sentences. I'm going to give it my best shot now.
Survivor's Guilt: Once, at the tender age of pre-k, I stood in a crowded movie theater and shouted "quit laughing, you're making my shoulder nervous" because Milo (of Milo and Otis) was stuck in a hole. It's been ever since then, and several more incidences, that the long running joke in my family revolves around my extreme sensitivity - especially to the plight of others. It comes as no surprise to me, then, that I have Infertility Survivor's Guilt.
This means that for the first few weeks of being pregnant I wanted to apologize. It's why I won't ever post pregnant belly pictures. It's the reason I still feel racked with uncertainty about the few instagram posts I have made about my pregnancy. How do you celebrate when another is mourning? How do you forget the many, many times you felt left behind and alone? I don't want, not for a single second, to add to the pain or brokenness of another.
With that said, to whomever my pregnancy might hurt: the rest of this post will be a trigger. I love you and remember you every day. You are important and wonderful and valued. Please look away now.
Celebration: Every morning I wake up I remember that I'm pregnant. Each new day is a wonderful celebration of that singular fact. It wasn't a dream. It's really, really, really real. I cannot, with any words created on this earth, express the unending, abounding, all consuming joy of knowing my daughter rests safe within me and I'll get to meet her in a few short months.
She started tapping on me at a tiny 14 weeks. Now, at 24 weeks, she gives me such an abundance of hard thumps that often I can't sleep until she settles down. Sometimes K places his hand on my belly and she kicks at him, too. Every single time he asks, in disbelief, if I did that. Every time I get to tell him that it's our daughter.
And 24 weeks, folks, that's a biggie in pregnancy land. It's viability which means that she's got a 50-50 chance of making it outside of my body should fate decide to bring her too early. It means that there shouldn't be a single doctor or hospital who wouldn't do everything to save her tiny little life. Each day from here only increases her odds. In two weeks, her chances without me go up to 90%.
We've started to get semi-serious about baby prepping. Her nursery is nearly half painted in a spectacular shade of aqua teal. The dino decor is half made. My dreams of the finished product are abundant. I'm anxious that we won't get it all done, won't have everything she needs, and at the same time calm knowing that it will all take care of itself the way this sort of stuff usually does. She has clothes galore. I would say it's too many clothes except there is no such thing when it comes to pretty little outfits. I need to wash and sort them at some point. I've not felt the urge yet so I'm waiting on that. The baby shower dates are booked and the registry is a mess. K had free reign of the scanner which means our list has at least 15 wubba nubs and some candy on it.
The things: When I gave up hope that I'd ever get, let alone stay, pregnant I'd also given up on getting to experience the things that go along with it. Warning - this will likely be very annoying to all those that dreaded the things I'm about to wax poetically thankful over.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG): this isn't just the regular morning sickness. This is the 'end up in the ER from vomiting your life up' sort of sickness. I am intimately familiar with the toilets at my house, my work, my in-laws, my neighbors, and establishments spread around DFW. Some foods I fear I'll never be able to eat again and my diet currently revolves around things that I think would hold up in flavor should I need to puke them back up soon. HG, for me, came with a lovely friend called migraine. Together, they left me a curled up useless mess on the couch. Thanks to a couple of wonderful medications I've been able to go about life fairly normal but without the medicines I turn right back into a shriveled wreck. And still, I GET TO SAY I HAVE HG! What! What sort of amazing nonsense is that. I have HG because I'm pregnant. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
Glucose Test: the horror stories I've heard about having to consume the sickly-sweet punch flavored glucose drink are common fodder for a get together of child-bearing aged women. It made them shaky, gave them headaches, left them feeling terrible for hours after. They were hungry and grumpy and uncomfortable. The tech was so bad at blood draws. They passed it no problem or failed it and had to go on to the next dreadful round of testings. And still, I CAN'T FREAKING WAIT. I have the drink sitting in my fridge door and I get a thrill of excitement each time I see it. I never thought I'd get the privilege of adding my part to the horror story. Bring it on. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
Maternity Shorts: They are so ugly and don't fit right. Everything is somehow too big and too small. Plus, they're very expensive. Unless you go cheap (ahem - my middle name) in which case I think you end up with even uglier, ill fitting garments. And still, I've been waiting a long time for this. Now that I'm finally showing and uncomfortable in my regular clothes, I hopped on the maternity shorts train even while complaining about it. Maybe I wasn't listening because I was too busy talking crap but these things are so comfortable. Give me all the ugly maternity gear. Let me be a hot mess. Heck yeah. Hallelujah!
Survivor's Guilt: Once, at the tender age of pre-k, I stood in a crowded movie theater and shouted "quit laughing, you're making my shoulder nervous" because Milo (of Milo and Otis) was stuck in a hole. It's been ever since then, and several more incidences, that the long running joke in my family revolves around my extreme sensitivity - especially to the plight of others. It comes as no surprise to me, then, that I have Infertility Survivor's Guilt.
This means that for the first few weeks of being pregnant I wanted to apologize. It's why I won't ever post pregnant belly pictures. It's the reason I still feel racked with uncertainty about the few instagram posts I have made about my pregnancy. How do you celebrate when another is mourning? How do you forget the many, many times you felt left behind and alone? I don't want, not for a single second, to add to the pain or brokenness of another.
With that said, to whomever my pregnancy might hurt: the rest of this post will be a trigger. I love you and remember you every day. You are important and wonderful and valued. Please look away now.
Celebration: Every morning I wake up I remember that I'm pregnant. Each new day is a wonderful celebration of that singular fact. It wasn't a dream. It's really, really, really real. I cannot, with any words created on this earth, express the unending, abounding, all consuming joy of knowing my daughter rests safe within me and I'll get to meet her in a few short months.
She started tapping on me at a tiny 14 weeks. Now, at 24 weeks, she gives me such an abundance of hard thumps that often I can't sleep until she settles down. Sometimes K places his hand on my belly and she kicks at him, too. Every single time he asks, in disbelief, if I did that. Every time I get to tell him that it's our daughter.
And 24 weeks, folks, that's a biggie in pregnancy land. It's viability which means that she's got a 50-50 chance of making it outside of my body should fate decide to bring her too early. It means that there shouldn't be a single doctor or hospital who wouldn't do everything to save her tiny little life. Each day from here only increases her odds. In two weeks, her chances without me go up to 90%.
We've started to get semi-serious about baby prepping. Her nursery is nearly half painted in a spectacular shade of aqua teal. The dino decor is half made. My dreams of the finished product are abundant. I'm anxious that we won't get it all done, won't have everything she needs, and at the same time calm knowing that it will all take care of itself the way this sort of stuff usually does. She has clothes galore. I would say it's too many clothes except there is no such thing when it comes to pretty little outfits. I need to wash and sort them at some point. I've not felt the urge yet so I'm waiting on that. The baby shower dates are booked and the registry is a mess. K had free reign of the scanner which means our list has at least 15 wubba nubs and some candy on it.
The things: When I gave up hope that I'd ever get, let alone stay, pregnant I'd also given up on getting to experience the things that go along with it. Warning - this will likely be very annoying to all those that dreaded the things I'm about to wax poetically thankful over.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG): this isn't just the regular morning sickness. This is the 'end up in the ER from vomiting your life up' sort of sickness. I am intimately familiar with the toilets at my house, my work, my in-laws, my neighbors, and establishments spread around DFW. Some foods I fear I'll never be able to eat again and my diet currently revolves around things that I think would hold up in flavor should I need to puke them back up soon. HG, for me, came with a lovely friend called migraine. Together, they left me a curled up useless mess on the couch. Thanks to a couple of wonderful medications I've been able to go about life fairly normal but without the medicines I turn right back into a shriveled wreck. And still, I GET TO SAY I HAVE HG! What! What sort of amazing nonsense is that. I have HG because I'm pregnant. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
Glucose Test: the horror stories I've heard about having to consume the sickly-sweet punch flavored glucose drink are common fodder for a get together of child-bearing aged women. It made them shaky, gave them headaches, left them feeling terrible for hours after. They were hungry and grumpy and uncomfortable. The tech was so bad at blood draws. They passed it no problem or failed it and had to go on to the next dreadful round of testings. And still, I CAN'T FREAKING WAIT. I have the drink sitting in my fridge door and I get a thrill of excitement each time I see it. I never thought I'd get the privilege of adding my part to the horror story. Bring it on. Holy crap! Hallelujah!
Maternity Shorts: They are so ugly and don't fit right. Everything is somehow too big and too small. Plus, they're very expensive. Unless you go cheap (ahem - my middle name) in which case I think you end up with even uglier, ill fitting garments. And still, I've been waiting a long time for this. Now that I'm finally showing and uncomfortable in my regular clothes, I hopped on the maternity shorts train even while complaining about it. Maybe I wasn't listening because I was too busy talking crap but these things are so comfortable. Give me all the ugly maternity gear. Let me be a hot mess. Heck yeah. Hallelujah!
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
It's hard for me to write this post
I had loooooong ago given up true hope that I would be a mama. The thought of cuddling, of raising, of loving a little one that looked to K and I for all its needs had become too much of a burden to bear and so I had let it go. Even as we inched closer to figuring out how to start the adoption process, I was extremely careful to keep myself in check. I had given my heart, with all its hopes and dreams and joy and pain, over to the Lord and I was finally in a place that I could breathe again. Now, to be clear, it would be a stretch to say that I was over it - this whole never being a mama thing - but I was ready (really, really, really ready) to move on to something that didn't hold so much hurt for me.
On the other hand, K hadn't reached the end of his wishful, hopeful thinking. He asked that, when I was emotionally ready, we give it two more tries. I agreed to his request because I was sure I had nothing to gain or lose except the couple of months worth of treatment it would take to be in the exact spot we always were when it came to this baby making business. Plus, if all it took to give him peace of mind so that we could move on was just two more cycles then sign me up.
We met with our new fertility specialist (thank you new insurance for offering infertility treatment coverage) and were able to start treatments that day. I was ready to throw the kitchen sink at the issue but K wanted to ease into things so we opted for oral medication, injections, and a lovely, romantic thing called timed intercourse, where a doctor tells you the exact times you should be getting it on. It is, actually, more romantic than the alternative I was ready to try where they just inject K's swimmers into my uterus and we call it a day.
And this is the part of the story where we come full circle. It's hard for me to write this post because, in perfect honesty, I'd given up the hope that I'd ever have the pleasure.
K and I actually, finally made a baby. We eagerly anticipate the arrival of our sweet, little girl in December.
On the other hand, K hadn't reached the end of his wishful, hopeful thinking. He asked that, when I was emotionally ready, we give it two more tries. I agreed to his request because I was sure I had nothing to gain or lose except the couple of months worth of treatment it would take to be in the exact spot we always were when it came to this baby making business. Plus, if all it took to give him peace of mind so that we could move on was just two more cycles then sign me up.
We met with our new fertility specialist (thank you new insurance for offering infertility treatment coverage) and were able to start treatments that day. I was ready to throw the kitchen sink at the issue but K wanted to ease into things so we opted for oral medication, injections, and a lovely, romantic thing called timed intercourse, where a doctor tells you the exact times you should be getting it on. It is, actually, more romantic than the alternative I was ready to try where they just inject K's swimmers into my uterus and we call it a day.
And this is the part of the story where we come full circle. It's hard for me to write this post because, in perfect honesty, I'd given up the hope that I'd ever have the pleasure.
K and I actually, finally made a baby. We eagerly anticipate the arrival of our sweet, little girl in December.
Friday, March 20, 2015
When I felt invisible: part two
THE NOT SO BAD
Prior to March 2014 I had no idea what I was passionate about or liked to do. Sure, when someone asked, I would list off all the things that K enjoyed - for which I tagged along - because they were pleasant enough and I had very little else to offer up. My birthday cake that year had literally been decorated with an icing replica of his face, "because", he'd said, "I thought about what you liked and it was either me or tea". If we want to get honest about what it's like to feel absolutely invisible there is no better example than when your own birthday cake is some other person's face.
Don't get me wrong - I loved that cake, we all got a hearty laugh out of it, but it exposed the matter pretty clearly. There was nothing much that could be distinctly pointed out as "me". I had nothing of my own and I was quickly, deeply dissatisfied with that.
Thus, I threw myself into anything that I ever had even the faintest desire to try:
- I bought a beautiful black guitar (a la Johnny Cash) and slowly taught myself to play, the pressure of the guitar strings burning my sweet, virgin fingertips into numbness;
- I began to paint, draw, and generally just create art (for better or for worse...and it's usually for worse);
- I committed to a yoga practice. Yoga is a lifeline for me, a sure cure for anytime my mood threatens to cloud over, and is so well suited to my disposition that I feel like it's always been in my life;
- I tried my hand at decorating, cooking, paddle boarding, and hiking. I dyed my hair purple and got a huge tattoo on my ribs. I swam underneath a waterfall. I stood in the ocean. I danced.
It is no exaggeration to say that I fell deeply, madly, no-holds-barred in love with everything.
Where, once, I had stood feeling alone and invisible, I now have an ever-growing array of friends reaching out to me, both to support and be supported. I can't put into words the way my heart swells when I think of the generous, kind-hearted, flawed, devoted, honest, and wickedly talented friends that I've made. Each of them, in their own perfectly unique way, teaches me everyday about the transformative nature of unconditional love. How one woman can be so lucky is beyond me.
My marriage to K is both more fragile and more resilient that I ever imagined it would be. I discovered that marriage love really does equal commitment (a lesson K probably wishes he didn't have to teach me). He stood by my side as I begged to leave, refusing to let either of us walk away and loving me whilst I broke his heart - I can't repay that and can only hope that I will be his unshakable anchor should he ever ask the same impossible question of me. I learned not to take our vows to each other for granted - they aren't a guarantee and must be renewed with each day, sometimes with each hour. He doesn't have to stay in this, nor do I, but our friendship and love for one another transcends whatever imperfections of character might tear us apart.
I pray again.
From March to October, I discovered that all around me was life, freedom, and invigorating energy. A year later, I still find that to be true.
Prior to March 2014 I had no idea what I was passionate about or liked to do. Sure, when someone asked, I would list off all the things that K enjoyed - for which I tagged along - because they were pleasant enough and I had very little else to offer up. My birthday cake that year had literally been decorated with an icing replica of his face, "because", he'd said, "I thought about what you liked and it was either me or tea". If we want to get honest about what it's like to feel absolutely invisible there is no better example than when your own birthday cake is some other person's face.
Don't get me wrong - I loved that cake, we all got a hearty laugh out of it, but it exposed the matter pretty clearly. There was nothing much that could be distinctly pointed out as "me". I had nothing of my own and I was quickly, deeply dissatisfied with that.
Thus, I threw myself into anything that I ever had even the faintest desire to try:
- I bought a beautiful black guitar (a la Johnny Cash) and slowly taught myself to play, the pressure of the guitar strings burning my sweet, virgin fingertips into numbness;
- I began to paint, draw, and generally just create art (for better or for worse...and it's usually for worse);
- I committed to a yoga practice. Yoga is a lifeline for me, a sure cure for anytime my mood threatens to cloud over, and is so well suited to my disposition that I feel like it's always been in my life;
- I tried my hand at decorating, cooking, paddle boarding, and hiking. I dyed my hair purple and got a huge tattoo on my ribs. I swam underneath a waterfall. I stood in the ocean. I danced.
It is no exaggeration to say that I fell deeply, madly, no-holds-barred in love with everything.
Where, once, I had stood feeling alone and invisible, I now have an ever-growing array of friends reaching out to me, both to support and be supported. I can't put into words the way my heart swells when I think of the generous, kind-hearted, flawed, devoted, honest, and wickedly talented friends that I've made. Each of them, in their own perfectly unique way, teaches me everyday about the transformative nature of unconditional love. How one woman can be so lucky is beyond me.
My marriage to K is both more fragile and more resilient that I ever imagined it would be. I discovered that marriage love really does equal commitment (a lesson K probably wishes he didn't have to teach me). He stood by my side as I begged to leave, refusing to let either of us walk away and loving me whilst I broke his heart - I can't repay that and can only hope that I will be his unshakable anchor should he ever ask the same impossible question of me. I learned not to take our vows to each other for granted - they aren't a guarantee and must be renewed with each day, sometimes with each hour. He doesn't have to stay in this, nor do I, but our friendship and love for one another transcends whatever imperfections of character might tear us apart.
I pray again.
From March to October, I discovered that all around me was life, freedom, and invigorating energy. A year later, I still find that to be true.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
The day I realized I was selfish
Two days ago. That's how long it's been since I realized I am a selfish person. K has pointed it out before but I never believed him. "Selfish!", I'd state incredulously, "ask anyone. They'd never describe me that way" (that's a direct quote from these lovely and humble lips of mine).
Here's to being less selfish, more trusting, and strengthening the two relationships that matter the most to me. Cheers.
As we are prone to do, from time to time, we got into one of our arguments...the kind where he shakes his head at me while I cross my arms at him and we wonder if the other person will ever understand us. Lying on our bed, hours after we'd begun, he admitted that I made him feel as though I value other relationships more than I value our marriage. It was in attempting to explain to him why this wasn't the case that my selfishness was undeniable.
I didn't feel that he was asking me to realize and act like the value of my marriage is beyond that of any outside entity. I was sure he was telling me to choose between what he wanted versus what I wanted, to decide between him or me. And if those were my options, I choose me. I choose to protect myself, to do whatever I need to make sure I feel okay, to do what makes me happy.
I choose me.
Has there ever been a more selfish sentence uttered or written?
There's a whole list of reasons why I choose me, none of them pretty, but it all comes down to my lack of trust, especially in God. How clever of a design that my marriage relationship reflects my spiritual one.
I didn't feel that he was asking me to realize and act like the value of my marriage is beyond that of any outside entity. I was sure he was telling me to choose between what he wanted versus what I wanted, to decide between him or me. And if those were my options, I choose me. I choose to protect myself, to do whatever I need to make sure I feel okay, to do what makes me happy.
I choose me.
Has there ever been a more selfish sentence uttered or written?
There's a whole list of reasons why I choose me, none of them pretty, but it all comes down to my lack of trust, especially in God. How clever of a design that my marriage relationship reflects my spiritual one.
Here's to being less selfish, more trusting, and strengthening the two relationships that matter the most to me. Cheers.
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