Honestly, I'm not sure there is a point...

Oh hi. It's 2012, you say? And my last entry here was in 2009? Yes, well, about that. The thing is in order to have a blog, you need to write it. And that is where I have gotten tripped up. The writing it part. So here I am. Trying again. I make no promises. I might post a few times and then disappear for another few years. I might not. Let's get down to business, shall we? Since I last posted, I gave birth to a beautiful little boy, Mister J. Six months after his arrival, I got pregnant again. I required progesterone again, narrowly escaping another miscarriage. Apparently, progesterone deficient is just how I roll. In any case, sixteen months after Mister J came my darling girl, Little E. Then my husband got laid off, then he got orders from Uncle Sam and moved four hours away. Little E was one month old when we started seeing Daddy only on the weekends. It has been a tough year, but in today's world, we are lucky. A steady income and health insurance are not taken for granted around here. Now his year is up and he has found a civilian job...13 hours away. In very short order, we found renters for our home, packed up, moved in with family, and found a place to rent in our new home state. Now we just sit tight for six weeks, waiting for the job to start and our new house to be available. Essentially, we are homeless. Technically, we own one home, we have the rights to another and have our stuff in a third. But, in our hearts? We don't have one solid place to plant our feet or rest our heads.

I'm not so stellar at this so...

I'll use one of these nifty little, fill-in-the-blanks surveys I've seen on so many other pregnancy blogs. It's slightly lame, but it's all I've got, folks.

How far along? 18w3d (although, apparently, I have a "uterus that sits high" leading me to measure large. As in, measuring 21 weeks today.)

Total weight gain/loss: +3lbs (finally!)

Maternity clothes? Yep. Mostly pants. Is it wrong to love those stretchy panels?

Sleep: Great -- except for the pesky trips to the bathroom.

Best moment this week: Hearing the heartbeat again.

Movement: I think yes. Could be gas though.

Food cravings: Warm, gooey cinnamon rolls and ice cold milk.

Gender: I'm thinking girl. Which seems to be the unanimous opinion among friends and family. But we won't know until birth day. We're old fashioned.

Labor Signs: None.

Belly Button in or out? In. But getting more shallow.

What I miss: A mojito on a hot summer's day.

What I am looking forward to: Next week's ultrasound.

Milestones: Starting to look pregnant to people who don't already know.

Lessons in Adulthood #458...

...God Has a Sense of Humor. (Alternately titled: Irony At Its Finest.)

So it has been a month since my last post. A serious blogger, I am not. My apologies.

In that time, good things have happened. At just under 8 weeks, I went for an ultrasound for "dating and viability." After a few tense moments, we saw that tiny, fluttering heart. And the little lima bean body it belonged to was measuring right on target. I cried. The technician started to cry. On top of that, she said she wanted to give me double the pictures to take home, since I "probably didn't get any last time." The whole experience was a far cry from the last. It was glorious.

After, such positive results, my midwife switched me from oral Pro.met.rium to progesterone suppositories. It's true that they are messy and a bit of a scheduling pain (as they are to be, ahem, inserted twice a day and you have to allow thirty minutes to lay down after each dose.) But I felt better almost immediately. The nausea, the fatigue, the constipation didn't disappear completely, but improved greatly. I felt like a new woman. Scratch that. I felt more like the woman I used to be.

At just under ten weeks, I had another appointment with my midwife. My uterus was measuring at ten weeks and we were able to listen to that lightening fast lub-dub-lub-dub. I cried. Again.

Now here I am, 12 weeks and 4 days, and even with all of that good stuff behind me, I'm still having a hard time trusting that I'm pregnant, that things are still progressing. And on top of that, I'm frustrated with myself for not being able to believe in this pregnancy. For starting every statement with "if." Like, "If this pregnancy sticks..." Or, "If we end up with a baby..." I know it's a defense mechanism. I know that I'm just trying to protect myself from more heartbreak. But it's also getting in the way of bonding with this baby, of opening my heart to this baby.

I go back to my midwife in a week, and at that point I will have stopped taking progesterone. Hopefully, things will continue to be positive. Maybe, I'll start to trust my body and this process. I'll keep working at it anyway.

Where was I? God's Sense of Humor. Right. I'm getting there.

In my first post I mentioned my divorce. It was nutty and I don't particularly feel like rehashing it at this moment. Suffice it to say, after a five year relationship, my husband came home in the middle of the night, woke me up, and said he had never wanted to be married, didn't want children or a mortgage or a wife. That was why is was over. Not because he didn't love me, but that we didn't want the same things. Or so he said. So that was it. He moved out a few hours later. During the state mandated year separation, we saw each other three times. When the divorce was final, he quit his job, moved across the country with his girlfriend -- who he claimed also didn't want children or marriage -- and became a vegan. Not that there's anything wrong with being a vegan, but the man used to eat bacon wrapped around ham dipped in cheese sauce. That might be an exaggeration, but not by much. His favorite pizza was topped with cheese, bacon and sausage. And that is the truth.

So fast forward a two and a half years to yesterday. His grandmother's birthday. His family and I have remained close and I called to wish her a Happy Birthday. She said she wanted to tell me something, before I heard it from anyone else. I braced myself. As it turns out, my ex, "Mr. I'm Never Going to Have Children, Settle Down, Live the Conventional Life" and his like-minded girlfriend are expecting a son in October. It knocked the wind out of me. Not because I thought I would be having his children. I did, but that was long ago and far away. I wouldn't trade my husband for anyone, and I am thrilled to be having his child. What hurt the most was that two people who spouted off to anyone who would listen that they wouldn't be having children, apparently got pregnant with ease and have had no trouble carrying this baby. Therein, lies the great joke. The one who said she wanted nothing more than to have children, to be a mother has to struggle to hold onto her pregnancies. (That would be me.) While people who didn't want children can have them without much thought at all. (Them. And lots of others, too, I'm sure.)

Nobody said life would be fair, but come on! Maybe I should adopt a new strategy. Maybe I should say I don't want children. Maybe I should act selfish. Maybe I should have a quarter life crisis and abandon every vestige of my former life. And then maybe I'll deserve an easy, worry-free pregnancy.

I'm getting over it. I keep reminding myself that I am living the life I was meant to live. That what God has for me, is mine. That this struggle is teaching me lessons and that I will never, for one second, take the miracle that is life for granted. If I think about it hard enough, I can find a way to see this journey as a blessing.

The Problem with Progesterone.

Day 15 of Operation Pro.me.trium. I feel like I'm losing the battle, but I hope I'm winning the war. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I cry at the drop of a hat. Literally. Spill some milk around here and watch the tears fall. (And yes, I am trying to see how many of those old adages I can fit into one paragraph.) I've completely lost my appetite and the waves of nausea can be overwhelming.

So I know. I'm pregnant. What did I really expect? Feeling sick comes with the territory.


Truthfully, it's probably not the physical symptoms that are the worst. It's the worry that comes along with them. (One of the far reaching consequences of pregnancy loss is the belief that it is actually more likely that you'll miscarry than carry to term. Which statistics prove is not true for most of us. But can I make myself believe that? Not on your life. So I worry.) I worry that because of the nausea, I'm not getting the proper nutrition. Grapes and chocolate milk do not a balanced diet make. I worry that because of the fatigue, I'm depriving my baby and myself of the benefits of exercise. I worry that if I wish to feel better, I'm wishing away my pregnancy. I worry that these so called "pregnancy symptoms" aren't actually a sign of a healthy, progessing pregnancy, but just the side effects of an artifically introduced hormone. Confusing.


But I also try to remember to be grateful in my confusion. Grateful that I'm pregnant at all. Grateful that I have fabulous health insurance that pays 100% of the cost of my prescriptions. Grateful that my midwife and her office staff are sweet and kind and dutifully follow through with all of my requests. Grateful that I have a supportive husband and involved family. Grateful. Grateful. Grateful. It my new mantra.

So 8 weeks and an ultrasound on Friday. Fingers crossed.

Riding the roller coaster again...

Actually, I'm not sure I ever got off. So maybe I'm just hitting a particularly treacherous track. And, I'll admit, it's got me scared.

Metaphors aside, the results from my third round of bloodwork are back and they aren't pretty. While my hcg levels continue to grow nicely, my progesterone has dropped to 13. That's about seven points -- not terribly insignificant. My wonderful midwife says she's thinks things are fine, but she doesn't want them to drop any lower. In my brief research the "normal range" for this stage starts as low as 9, so I'm ok -- for now. It's the "for now" that kills me.

I've done absolutely everything within my power to ensure a healthy pregnancy this time around. Just for kicks, let's list the changes I've made to my lifestyle since the loss of my first pregnancy. Got half an hour or so?
1. Full blood work up. Including screening for thyroid issues.
2. Weekly acupuncture appointments.
3. Daily fermented cod liver oil supplement. Yum.
4. Daily liver pills (equivilent to eating 1oz of beef liver daily.)
5. Replaced household cleaning supplies, including laundry and dish detergent, with their green counterparts.
6. Replaced personal hygiene and beauty products (face wash, shampoo, etc) with green products, free of salicylic acid, benzyol peroxide, sodium laureth sulfate.
7. Discontinued use of mainstream scented candles. Currently using only soy or beeswax based candles, scented with essential oils.
8. Completely overhauled my diet. Seriously. Completely. Down to the kind of salt I use. (I now use mineral rich celtic sea salt, just in case you were wondering.) Including, but not limited to switching to organic meats, dairy products and vegetables.
9. Started drinking "more fat" milk from grass-fed cows. Good bye skim, hello 2%.
10. Added free range eggs to my daily diet.
11. Made a commitment to eat breakfast every morning. (As opposed to having my first meal after 1pm.)
12. Discontinued all over coloring of my hair. (Highlights, which keep the color off the scalp, only. And unfortunately for my roots, even that has been put on hold.)
13. Added yoga to my repetoire.
14. Completely cut out caffeine, cured meats, soft cheeses. (Oh feta, how I miss you.)
15. Cut out the microwave. (Before you freak, not because of radiation, but because it denatures our food.)
16. Kept my feet warm. (Hard for this barefoot kinda girl!)
17. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts, positive thoughts!
And, as of today at 5w4d, I have added an oral progesterone supplement.

I'm sure none of this is new to those of you struggling in the aftermath of a loss, or with infertility. I'm sure you could add pages to my list. There's no end to the changes we can make to our lifestyles to try to ensure a healthy pregnancy and the arrival of a perfect little life. But, at the end of the day, you come to the realization that there's just no ensuring anything. There are no guarantees. But knowing that, we still try. We still read everything there is to read. Try everything there is to try. Do what's inconvenient, uncomfortable, expensive. I guess it might sound crazy to people who haven't struggled in the same way. But I think it's testament to a mother's love. Only a mother would go to such lengths for her child. A child she's never seen, never held in her arms. And whether the rest of the world recognizes us as mothers or not, our commitment, our love speaks for itself.

As for me, I'll continue with my list. Including those little peach pills, two or three times a day. I don't know how it'll turn out, but I do know that I'll keep loving this little life and will be grateful for the time they spend with me.

Back in the Saddle...

Or whatever the blogging equivalent might be. (Back under the laptop?) I was seriously considering giving up on my brief venture into blogdom. See those two months between posts? That was me being a quitter. But my husband asked me to keep it up and, as it turns out, there is one other person who is interested in what I have to say (or she was nice enough to pretend like she was. I'm not the only one capable of smoke and mirrors, you know. Either way I appreciate it.) So here I am giving it another shot.

And you know what? It feels good. Since miscarrying, I do feel a bit of a responsibility to blog. Considering somewhere around one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, you'd think the world wide web would be crawling with stories and advice about dealing with such a thing. But it's harder to come by than you might guess. Since I'm not smart enough to write a book, I'll just hope my itty-bitty blog might give someone, somewhere some kind of comfort. Or at the least, someone might enjoy correcting all my fragmented sentences and overzealous punctuation.

So I'm back to blogging and I also happen to be back to being pregnant. We waited the recommended two cycles, hoping to be pregnant in May. And here we are. It's May and I'm pregnant. Apparently, getting pregnant (or falling pregnant as they say in Australia -- and really isn't that more appropriate?) is not our problem. For that, I am grateful. Pregnancy is a totally different experience this time around. There are many of the same emotions. Some new ones, too. Like the first time, we are excited, but now terribly paranoid. We are in love, but trying to stay detached. We are hopeful, but trying not to get our hopes up. You might wonder how that works. It doesn't, really. You can't be both in the same moment. It's a see-sawing motion, back and forth. A constant up and down. It's the most exciting and most terrifying place to find yourself. Because we can't see any other way, we're taking it a day at a time. One appointment at a time. And we don't expect to feel at ease until there's a real, live baby in our arms. (Here, I'm sure you who are already parents are thinking, "Feeling at ease? Having that baby is precisely when the REAL worries set in!" Well, okay. I'll blog about that when I get to it.)

So far, things are looking good for this pregnancy. I had blood drawn the first day I had a positive pregnancy test and then 72 hours later. My HCG (that's the "pregnancy" hormone for any of you unfamiliar with all of the chemicals and processes involved in conception -- the one detected when you pee on a stick) rose dramatically from 97 to 454. My progesterone level went from 16.52 to 20.66. These are good things. As we had no bloodwork the first time around, we have nothing by which to compare. But by themselves these levels give no cause for concern. I will return tomorrow, a week from the last blood draw, to be tested again. Cross your fingers that we will continue to see upward movement. (And that I don't get pulled over for speeding or a broken tail light. The nice officer might confuse me for an intravenous drug user, thanks to all the sticks and subsequent bruising.)

A few weeks from now it's time for an ultrasound. If the results aren't positive I doubt I'll be able to step foot in that place again. Really, the first time was bad enough. For those of you who have never been there, allow me to explain. It goes a little something like this...

First of all, your bladder must be full in order to have a successful ultrasound at an early date. And I mean Full, with a capital F. So you arrive and you are already in pain. Then they make you wait. Forty minutes with a bladder past capacity. By the time you are called back, you almost don't care what they see as long as you can hurry up and empty your aching bladder. Almost. So the friendly tech chats while she gets everything set up. You tell her you have just begun spotting. Everyone says that it happens sometimes to some women early in pregnancy. That it's not worrisome. But you want to be sure. That's why you are here. And then she falls heartbreakingly silent. You're ten weeks pregnant -- there should be a recognizable baby shape on the screen. There should be a flickering heart. But there's not. There's just a grey, shapeless mass. Under which the tech types "gestational sack?" At that point she leaves the room. She hasn't said one word. Except, "You can get dressed now." She is gone just long enough for you to pull on your pants and look at your husband and say, "There is no baby." You marvel that you could say that precise combination of words without faltering. Without tears. When she returns, she can't look you in the eye and she tells you that your doctor will call you with more information. But you already know everything you need to know. In the car your husband says, "Maybe the baby was just being shy. Maybe the tech just didn't do it right." "No," you say. You love him for his optimism. For his wanting to protect you. But you have to repeat the truth. The words that the trained professional couldn't manage. "There is no baby." He is sweet and sad. So sweet and sad. And at that moment you are struck by how much you wanted to have his baby. And that you aren't.

That's far from the end, but I'll stop there for now. You probably understand now why going back there might smart a little. But I imagine that the alternate ending (wouldn't it be lovely if, like those stories from grade school, you could choose your own ending? Mine would always involve babies. And potato chips. And pretty shoes.), the ending I was hoping for the last time, the ending that I'm hoping for this time will go a good way in healing what hurts. Though I admit I'll never totally forgive that building. And I'll never be completely over that loss. One baby can't replace another. But it can (and does and will) get a little farther away and hurt just a little less. And ok, maybe we get sad news again. I guess it's a risk we're willing to take. But maybe, just maybe, this time we'll see that little heart flutter.

Creating the Illusion of Adulthood

Turns out, I'm 27. Which is weird because I remember clearly my parents being 27. In my head, 27 is grown up. Old, even. Time to stop believing your real life still lies ahead and make a plan. Plans, I am good at. Technically, I'm even good at bringing the plans to fruition. What doesn't turn out so well is getting the universe to go along with them.

I hereby submit the following for your consideration:
Plan for Growing Up #1 Graduate from college and find a job. Check and check. See how easy this is?

Plan for Growing Up #2 Get married and buy a house (and a dog). Check and check (and check). Until said marriage spontaneously combusted. Or, more accurately, husband spontaneously combusted/was abducted by aliens who stole his brain. (We can save that for another, extra special post.)

Plan for Growing Up #2 REMIX Get REmarried. Keep house and dog. Add another dog for good measure. Get pregnant. Check. All of the above. (You know what's coming don't you?) Until said pregnancy ends in bloody miscarriage and hormonal madness ensues. (Also for another post.)

So here I am, swiftly approaching 30. Frantically trying to figure life plan number three. While battling declining pregnancy hormones and adjusting to newly remarried life. Call it a quarter-life crisis. Or something. But I'm hoping keeping tabs of all of my plans, successes and failures might help to convince me that this grown-up version of myself isn't all one enormous optical illusion.