Say Hello to My Little Friend

When I was about 10 or 11, I decided that I wanted a cat. I have no memory of what possessed me, but chances are it was that I decided this was just what I thought I needed. Up until then, we'd had no pets since my parents both worked and I was at school most the day. My father couldn't bear having a dog knowing that it would be alone all day and he was not partial to cats (oh, how times have changed on that one! He now has this t-shirt. Seriously).

I needled, wheedled, begged, whined, pleaded - everything to get a cat. When they finally gave in, I said no thanks. Why? Well, in addition to being a Grade A manipulator, I realized, even then, that what I really wanted was to know that I could do it. I could get them to agree. Once I realized that that was the goal, I had won. It wasn't about the cat at all - it might as well have been a bike. Needless to say, I didn't have a cat (or any pet) until I was married. That time, I truly wanted a cat.

I have to wonder, though, if my sometimes physically painful desire to have a child is just a more grown up manifestation of the same thing. Do I want it this badly because so far I haven't been able to do it? Has the whole process become another challenge to overcome with the final victory not having a child to parent for the rest of my years, but just producing a living baby? Is this my Petulant Inner Five-Year-Old (who is kissing cousins with My Inner Drama Queen) throwing a hissy fit because I was told "no?

I will be the first to admit that I have gotten most everything that I wanted and those times that I didn't usually were directly related to something I did or didn't do. In other words, not since I was a kid have I been denied something I wanted without my usually having something to do with that denial. (Perfect example: I *would* have graduated from grad school cum laude if I had paid more attention in one stupid class that I took my very last semester and gotten a better grade.)

Yet, I also can't remember feeling this much physical gut-punching pain as I do when I hear that someone I know is pregnant or has a baby. It is literally like a punch in the stomach. And, surprisingly, what is so painful to me is not the idea of having this child, it is the loss of the more pedestrian things that go along with being pregnant - getting to wear maternity clothes, picking out cribs, painting nurseries, picking names. And most of all, it's having Pregnancy Innocence. I lost that one the first round out of the gate, never to be seen again.

After the initial gut reaction, my inner 5-year-old immediately stamps her little foot, crosses her little arms, and through a pouty little mouth yells, "That's not fair! That's what I want! I want to count the little toes! I want to look at cribs! I want to pick out nursery colors! I want, want, want!" I want everything that goes with being pregnant, including having the healthy child at the end. Most of all, I want to feel as if I have a legitimate chance to make it to the finish line.

Although, again, is this just my desire to complete that which I have not been able to? The best way to get me motivated is to tell me I can't do something. Works like a charm every time. But, what was accomplished? This is not the same as getting into a better class at school. This is a child, more of a lifetime commitment than anything I have undertaken. Am I seriously treating it as a challenge like a marathon or a goal to accomplish in and of itself? I have this terrible fear that we are successful and that baby is placed in my arms and all I can say is, "What now?"

I suspect, as with all things, that the truth lies somewhere in the middle. I had similar concerns when we got Fluffy and the Bad One five years ago. I was very honest with Sweetie that I was afraid that I would lose interest once they were no longer kittens. After all, they were adorable kittens doing what kittens do so how could I possibly find them interesting when they were older, more sedate kitties? What I didn't count on was that they would wrap me around their little paws just as easily as if they were swatting a string. I, of course, have loved them from the day we brought them home and in fact, love them more now that they have gotten their "kitten years" behind them. Just goes to show what I know.

Maybe it is best to have compartmental goals - 1) get pregnant, 2) stay pregnant 3) worry about actually raising child when we get there. Small bites, small steps, small goals, all lead to a big mountain. For this process is in part a marathon, with each phase being another leg of the journey.

I will leave you with a quote from Lance Armstrong in that epic story of success in the face of absolute failure, Dodgeball:

"Quit? You know, once I was thinking of quitting when I was diagnosed with brain, lung and testicular cancer all at the same time. But with the love and support of my friends and family, I got back on the bike and won the Tour de France five times in a row. But I'm sure you have a good reason to quit. So what are you dying of that's keeping you from the finals?"

Truer words have never been spoken.
image: readerwalker

The Misbehaving Ovary and Other Tales of My Lady Parts

I am currently rather foggy due to the 800mg of Ibuprofen I took about two hours ago after I got home from an emergency dildocam appointment with Dr. Uterus. What fun is this, you ask? Get a glass of wine and pull up a chair.

Last night I had the worst pain I think I have ever had. It was terrible because it was like someone was stabbing my left ovary over and over again. I couldn't sleep because no matter what position I was in, the stabbing would continue. The pain even started to radiate down my thigh! It didn't help that I had two glasses of wine last night and I was reading the super weird, but brilliantly written American Gods so by the time I turned the light out, my head was filled with all kinds of disturbing images. When I did manage to sleep I had super weird dreams.

Needless to say, when I got up, I immediately called Dr. Uterus' service and had myself an appointment made by 8:30. Of course, my Inner DQ was running around in a panic muttering things like "ruptured cyst" and "lose an ovary" and "surgery, surgery!". I called Sweetie who is out of town and discussed contingency plans in case I needed emergency surgery. By the time I made it to Dr. Uterus' office, I just wanted someone to knock me out from the pain, preferably with lots and lots of drugs.

After a surprisingly pain-free date with the dildocam, it appears that my naughty left ovary has, for whatever reason, developed a hemorrhagic cyst. The good news is that while pesky and painful (did I mention painful?), my cyst is not particularly worrisome and will resolve on its own. I have the heating pad clutched to my lower abdomen and the bottle of Ibuprofen within my clutches (although I may have to upgrade to the Vicodin). I just hope the pain subsides before we go to Paris. Mrs. X will be a cranky girl if her ovary is acting out while she is trying to admire the Venus de Milo.
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Thanks to everyone who commented on my last post for confirming that a) boys do not think before they speak sometimes and b) I was not crazy to be really pissed off by what Dr. Uterus said to me. I was so discouraged by that meeting and it was so wonderful to hear that I was perfectly justified feeling this way. Additional props to Paranoid for perfectly describing our collective rage as 'apoplexy'.

Even before my emergency meeting today, I had requested to talk with Dr. Uterus again regarding the mock cycle. I wanted to understand the theory behind it, particularly since so many of you who have done an FET haven't heard of this being done. I couldn't get the cost-benefit analysis. Cost: much pain, lost month and an endometrial biopsy. Benefit: maybe information about what might happen with the actual FET. As you can tell, the costs were outweighing the benefits.

After discussing my cyst, I brought up my concerns regarding the mock cycle. In his view - and this is strictly his view - not doing the mock cycle ahead of time would be bordering on careless. The purpose is to ensure that the particular protocol that is used works on the particular individual such that the endometrium is the right thickness and ready to receive the totscicles. In fact, the gold standard is two mock cycles in a row! Thankfully, he recognizes that this isn't practical and only recommends one. I was still concerned that even with all of this information, the actual FET cycle may still not have the same endometrium results as the mock cycle. He acknowledged that this was a possibility, but it was the best source of information and far better than not doing one at all.

I had also given some thought over the past few days to a possible compromise on the mock cycle. Rather than doing the PIO injections, I would try the new vaginal inserts. He had told us on Tuesday that he has had some patients who have not responded to them, but since it is during the mock cycle, we'll know then rather than during the FET cycle. And, if I don't respond to the vaginal inserts, I will happily poke myself in the ass till kingdom come. He was happy with this compromise and was fully on board.

So, I will do the mock cycle because I know that I will not be able to live with myself if I don't do it and the FET results in a bust. I will always wonder if it didn't work because the protocol failed and we didn't know it because I didn't do the mock cycle. And, with the vaginal inserts, I don't feel as if it is such a huge burden on me for a cycle that is a mock cycle. We would also really be starting to try again at the time that we had discussed, which was July with the mock cycle being in June. The Queen has also given her approval.

I also asked a simple favor from him: I asked him not to tell me any more stories of his other patients. He agreed immediately. He acknowledged that they usually help other patients who feel like they are alone in their struggle - but I told him, I blog, I'm not alone! I am also one of those people who don't particularly benefit from stories of other people's success. He was very gracious and apologized for telling me stories in the past. I immediately absolved him of any guilt since he didn't know that I didn't want to hear them until now.

So, I am finally at peace with our meeting with him and I am on board with our plan for going forward. It feels good, even if my naughty ovary doesn't.

Off With His Head!

Well, it would seem that my Inner Drama Queen likes it here in la-la-land and has once again appeared. Maybe it's a Tuesday thing. Maybe it's just that time of year. Or, maybe I'm genuinely losing it and she's taking over a la Jekyll and Hyde.

Suffice it to say that I have found myself wanting to yell, "Off with his head!" several times today. Honestly, no one really deserved it, but She Who Must Be Obeyed doesn't understand the niceties of society that there are in fact very few offenses that would warrant that. (In reality, I'm a staunch death penalty opponent, but she didn't get that message.)

All of this peevishness (I love that word) arises out of our meeting with Dr. Uterus. Surprisingly, very little had to do with the technical details that we discussed. He confirmed our suspicions that it was just again Stroke of Bad Luck, which while eminently unsatisfactory in terms of a concrete answer, is probably the best that we are going to get. We talked about doing pregenetic implantation diagnosis (PGD) on our totscicles and he was quite honest that they have never attempted it on frozen ones, although it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. He also recommended against doing it since it is so untested in frozen ones, which made sense. We talked about what further testing we can do (none) and the protocol for an FET cycle.

The thing is, it was just being in his office that had already started to set me on edge. Our last visit when we were told that our second baby in a row had died is apparently still very fresh emotionally. It all started to come back before we even saw him. I was also annoyed by the poster in the room with the picture of twin babies with the glowing ad copy gushing about how in a few months a couple he helped were preparing for twins! Dear God that was discouraging. He's been helping me for almost TWO FREAKIN' YEARS and I have twins all right! Twin miscarriages!

Now, lest you get the impression that I blame Dr. Uterus, I don't. I know it's not his fault, it's not Dr. Freak Out's fault, it's not even our fault. I know that he's doing everything within his power to help us. I don't deny that or under appreciate that for a second. Our history can really be chalked up to random bad luck. I also know that with those posters he's doing what everyone in America does - he's selling something. But, I found it so offensive today considering that I have done everything that is asked of me and I still have nothing to show for it and his advertisements make it sound so easy, so quick, so simple, so without pain.

The discussion of the FET protocol also annoyed me. He prefers to do a mock cycle first - with an endometrial biopsy for your parting gift at the end! - before doing the actual FET. I did the quick calculations and of course figured out that we're talking about two months - one month in which I have no hope of getting pregnant just to see if my uterus can be tricked into thinking its time for pregnancy and then one month in which the frozen totscicles are thawed and transferred. The thing is, once I decide to get started again, I don't want to go through a mock month. It's a wasted month (even though yes I understand that it is necessary)!

Being the inquisitive little one that I am, I also asked what the mock cycle entailed as far as drugs and monitoring. The good news? No monitoring. The bad news? I would have to shoot myself in the ass again with the goddamn progesterone. WTF!? And this is just during the mock cycle! I would have to do it during the FET and during the 2WW! This really pissed me off. I have no problem doing it when I know that it will help with a possible pregnancy, but I really resent having to do it for a mock cycle. It's like what else is required of me? Walking on hot coals? Climbing Mt. Everest? Finding the cure to cancer?

But, even this was not enough to rouse my Inner DQ to her full fury - and what did rouse her will probably appear to you to be the most inocuous thing. While we were getting ready to leave, Dr. Uterus stated that I have taken on a new position in his practice. I am now the patient who has such rotten luck and bad outcomes that I am next in line for the divine miracle, the run of better luck, whatever. His patient who used to occupy this throne is now 9-weeks pregnant with a "beautiful baby" and his pride and thrill was evident. It was like a sucker punch to me. I know that it was meant as a story of hope - see if she can do it, so can you! - but it just came across to me as this mockery of all that I've been through. I had a pregnancy that he declared beautiful and then it went horribly wrong. To me, it was like going through it all over again.

I know that's not how it was intended and I didn't tell him what I thought. I know he genuinely thought it would make me feel better. I'm just one of those people who those kinds of stories don't. I did share with Sweetie, though, hoping that he would understand, would give me some comfort. Nope. He got frustrated with me and accused me of being envious. (Envy is now a four-letter-word in our household). I agreed with him. I am envious and I don't like that I am, but I am. I feel it and get over it. But, when I looked for comfort and validation, he instead chided me like I was a 5-year old. It ain't easy being green.

Sorry for the length (and the whining and the peevishness), but rarely is a long story made short. Sweetie is going out of town tomorrow and I am grateful for the time to myself to reign in the Queen so that she can't go all half-assed crazy.

Unraveling

I thought I was doing pretty well last week. I had reached the point where my trip somewhere wasn't ruined by the sight of a lady with the tell-tale bulge. I was calm, serene - but the dam had to burst sometime.

Things started to unravel Friday afternoon. I hadn't slept well all week, I was working extremely hard on a project at work that is easily the most important of my career (no pressure!) that also happened to be extremely challenging, all while trying to make the most of my 'down time' at night with self-improvement and overall creativity. Needless to say, by the time Friday rolled around, I was exhausted - mentally and physically. I suspect that this set me up for being unable to handle all of the crap that was thrown at me.
First, on Friday I realized that come the beginning of next month, it will have been Three Long Years since we officially threw out the birth control and began planning who was going to take our new little urchin to day care. No matter how I looked at it, I could not see the positives - all I could see was that three years later, it's still just me, the guy and the furry beasts. Sure I can get pregnant! Sure my tubes are clear! So far, it hasn't done me a damn bit of good. I found this utterly depressing.

Friday night we went out with some friends to a local festival. Upon arriving, what is the first thing I see? Very pregnant ladies. Two of them, in fact. Couple that will all of the homeless kitties we saw in the park, and I was in a sad state.

Saturday, we go out to lunch and pick the restaurant mainly based on the fact that it has outdoor dining since it was a gorgeous day. This time, the hostess was pregnant and there was a very pregnant (and extmremely chic) lady there as well. Oh, and the hair salon has a very pregnant stylist (not mine) who had to walk back and forth in front of me. Am I destined to have this thrown in my face? I was officially getting discouraged and depressed.

Today, we went to the grocery store - the new one up the street that I hate with a passion reserved usually for the worst of the worst - and wouldn't you know it? Our checker was pregnant. And, I passed a woman talking to another woman about how she started to show immediately. Plus, one infant, and several six-ten month olds. I think I have officially reached my breaking point.

Talk about hitting you when you're down - I was already feeling depressed this weekend and then I just keep being reminded of the two babies I have lost and the fact that I can't even make it to the bulging stage. I want to be as big as a house! I don't want to be able to see my feet, I want to complain that I look like a whale because all of it means that I'm pregnant with a sentient being who kicks and sleeps and belches, all in my tummy - who will arrive with my eyes and his nose and look like all of the ancestors that we've ever had.

I know that there is an ebb and tide of grief - just like there are hills and valleys in life. I know that last week was the ebbing and this weekend was the tide. It just hurts so much, but there is no detour, no way around it. And, better out than in.

I still wish, though, that I could reach that point where it didn't bother me. I suspect, though, that it's like most things - some days you can and some days you can't. These just happened to be "can't" days.

Great Expectations

Over the years, I have learned to scale back my expectations of what life has in store for me. When you are younger, of course, you expect that you will have the life that your friends or your parents have. You don't expect to have problems or grief or disappointment - at least not until you are old (which back then in my mind was 40).


I have also learned how to handle other people's expectations for my life. There isn't a person that I tell that we don't have children that I would wager wonders to themselves, why not? Luckily, very few are so deprived of manners to actually ask that question. I smile and know what they're thinking, but frankly don't care enough about their opinion to actually do or say anything. Let them think what they may - it is usually far more interesting than the truth.

And then there are those pernicious amorphous expectations that are exuded from society that we almost unconsciously take upon ourselves. For example, Sweetie's employer is building a day care center for its employees. We first heard about it about a year ago when they sent out a survey to employees to guage interest. Sweetie enthusiastically filled it out, indicating that we did indeed have plans to use the day care center. Typically, news of the progress of the day care center would filter down to us around the time that I was pregnant, so that we would begin to plan how we would utilize it. And, then, we would be smacked upside the head for having the temerity to actually make plans and would get a D&C for our hubris.

Now, the day care center is under construction and at first, I had that same feeling that I had to have a child and quickly to be able to use the day care center. After all, weren't they building it because we said we would use it? Luckily, I stepped back and realized that it didn't really matter if we used it or not. It was nice that it was there, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if we weren't able to use it now, soon or even ever. After all, it's just a building.

image: swamibu

My Path

I've never been one for the idea that each person has a destiny set out before them. How can someone be destined to be a prostitute or serial killer when someone else is destined to be a nun or social worker? It belies a certain amount of short-straw syndrome where some people are "destined" to have crappy luck while others get to live idyllic lives, and apparently the person with the crap luck has no say in it. At the same time, I don't buy into the idea that we make our own destiny. I had no hand in being born into an incredibly stable house with lots of opportunities for education, advancement and overall growth complete with loving and well-adjusted parents.
image: maverickapollo
I prefer to think of my life as a series of paths. I may follow the one tread by those before me, or I may veer off into other directions. I may have company on parts of the journey and others I go by myself. I may choose the direction sometimes and sometimes the direction may choose me, but there is always motion.

I've had to remind myself of this a lot lately, though, because I've been having a hard time with the fact that there are those who got pregnant around the same time that I did and they are still pregnant. I feel angry that I can't continue that journey, I feel embarrassed that I somehow failed the test, and I'm annoyed at that sneaking little voice that asks, "Why her and not me?"

I've answered this question before, but apparently I have forgotten the lesson because I still seem to be asking it. So, I'm trying a different tactic this time around. Whenever I feel that question coming on, I just remember that her path is not my path. I may not know where my path will take me, but I do know which one is mine.

And for better or worse, my path right now doesn't include being pregnant. It does include having a Diet Coke, eating bleu cheese at lunch, gardening this morning and looking forward to a glass of wine this evening. And, I'm getting better at enjoying these things for themselves and not dwelling on what being able to have them means. Because, dwelling on it doesn't change it and never will.

It also feels so good to give myself permission not to dwell on it either. It frees me up to think about other things, dream about other things, and actually enjoy life. And you know what I did today? I laughed, out loud. It seems like it's been so long since I did that - a genuine, joyful laugh.

And it felt really, really good.

Duly Noted

image: Joe Shlabotnik
After graduating from high school, I attended and graduated from a fairly well-known, private mid-sized university. At the time, this school was one of my "safeties". Now, this school would certainly not offer me admission if I showed up with the STA scores that I had then. The farthest I'd probably get would be the waiting list. What a difference 14 years makes!

It took me a while to love my school - it was in a part of the country that I had never spent a lot of time in outside of childhood and the culture shock was pretty shocking. It also wasn't my first choice school and so I had to go through the arduous process of changing my admittedly unrealistic expectations about the right school for me. Nevertheless, I learned to love and fully embrace my school and I can easily report that I had a truly great time in college (and yes, I did get an education).

So, as I looked in the mail box, I saw the familiar logo. It was the school's quarterly magazine that is sent out to alumni. In the early years after I had graduated, I coveted this quarterly dose of school pride. As the years have passed - in May, it will have been 10 years since I graduated (dear Lord, I can't believe it) - I have grown less and less excited about receiving this particular tome in the mail. First it was because I no longer recognized anyone in the pictures. Now, as you have probably guessed, it's a more pernicious reason.

Inevitably, the Class Notes for my year and those immediately preceeding and following it now contain the same announcement over and over again: so and so is pleased to announce the birth of their first, second, even third child. My years-range has moved past the marriage stage (that was a few years ago - what the early aughts are now peppering their announcements with) and we've now moved into baby-land.

What's amazing is that if you go maybe a decade back in the classes (so those who are 20 years out from graduation), there are very few birth announcements and its all about what that person is doing for their career. I am stuck in that time frame where my fellow alum's only accomplishment has apparently been the fact that they were either knocked up or got someone knocked up and they had a baby. Are people not advancing in their careers so that their only news is this? We're talking 10 years since graduation!

You have also probably ventured a guess that part of my hostility comes from the fact that I'm jealous as hell. You are absolutely right. But, what I have realized is that in wanting to place that special birth announcement, I would just be adding to the clutter of announcements that, at their minimum, herald and celebrate someone's fecundity - something I can't even come close to boasting about, so far. (Can I send in an announcement that I have endured two years of medical intervention to get pregnant and two miscarriages?)

So, I'm not going to wait to place my announcement when we have a child - however and whenever that blessed event may occur. I'm going to find some other recent achievement that highlights my accomplishments since graduation and send that in. Once again, I will change my expectations of what I should be doing and do what I was really meant to do.

Graduation Day

I should mention that Dr. Uterus, while having a solo practice as a reproductive endocronologist, shares office space with a high risk OB. If he wasn't Dr. Uterus, I would have abandoned him long ago in favor of someone who didn't routinely have very pregnant ladies in his waiting area. But, he is Dr. Uterus and he is wonderful (and did I ever mention that he's easy on the eyes?), so I put up with the pregnant ladies (and the pregnancy magazines and the fliers about maternity tours at the nearby hospital).

Anyway, on the day when I had the unexpected visit to his office because my beta was rising rather than declining after he had predicted the miscarriage, I saw a heavily pregnant woman walking ahead of me to his office. I knew why she was there and I was so angry that I was in my place and she was in hers. She was happy and practically bursting and I was already annoyed at having to cancel my trip and go visit him to see if I was going to have more drama (the theory was a possible ectopic). This was just karmic icing on the cake.

As Dr. Uterus' nurse called for me, she turned the husband of the Bursting Pregnant Lady and said "hi". It was at that point that I realized, they were former patients and had graduated to the high risk OB. Rather than feel hope, my heart sank. I was a double failure. It wasn't like she had just gotten knocked up the normal way - she was a Dr. Uterus Success Story and here I was, the misfit with rising betas and what are probably delicately referred to as "issues". To be sure, I had no idea what this lady had been through. She could have had five previous miscarriages for all I knew. Frankly, at that moment I didn't care.
image: Amigurumi Kingdom
All I cared about what that she had graduated and I hadn't. I was being held back. Again. I had to repeat Remedial Infertility 101 and Early Pregnancy Loss 102. This is particularly difficult for me since I am a Type A, Class A, Grade A Overachiever with delusions of perfection and immodesty. I was salutatorian of my high school class, I graduated with honors from college and was near the top of my class in grad school. I don't do failure.

So, not ever being able to even graduate from Dr. Uterus' care is another blow to my self-esteem which is obviously heavily dependent upon my ability to succeed in conventional situations. Now, my rational mind knows that a) I have no blame for my first miscarriage and probably no blame for the second and b) my inability to get or stay pregnant is not a reflection on my worth as a person. But, my rational mind is being put in a half-nelson by my irrational, emotional, hormone-fueled, addled and grief stricken psyche and it is not going to let go. Bad crazed psyche!

The next step is to wrest my rational mind away from the crazed psyche. Maybe I should add that to the list? I suspect that all that will help is time and healing. I have a lot of the former and need a lot of the latter. Or maybe, I just need to grieve for the loss of yet another "normal" milestone.

The Deluge

Of the numerous terrible things about having a miscarriage, one of the worst is that even though you no longer have a baby or pregnancy, but you still have the hormones. They don't leave the body particularly fast and depending upon how far along you were, it can take an agonizing amount of time for the HCG to leave your system. I seem to recall from last time that it leaves the body in halves - so if it was 10,000 one day, it should be 5,000 a few days later and so forth. While you are waiting for it to eek out of your bloodstream, though, you are left to its mercy (and that of the progesterone) so that all of the emotions that you are already feeling are that more heightened. Talk about being hit while you're already down.
image: Earthwatcher
So, today when I felt the sadness just overwhelming me, I knew that in some part it was the damn hormones just making a bad situation worse. But, still. I'm sad. I'm sad that once again I don't have a baby to look forward to. I'm sad that we're coming up on our 5th wedding anniversary and it's still just the two of us. I'm sad because I feel like I have failed again and that we are running out of "it's-a-random-occurrence" excuses. I'm worried that there might really be something wrong with me or with our embryos.

And, I'm angry. I'm angry because I feel cheated (again). I'm angry that we had this happen again. I'm angry that I couldn't just have a normal miscarriage like last time and instead had that two week blip of hope that still left us with nothing. I'm angry that once again we've landed in that 2-10% who hear the heartbeat and still end up miscarrying (which I find particularly cruel). I'm angry that we're infertile and can't seem to make much progress. I'm angry that Dr. Uterus has had so many successes and yet I can't seem to be in that win column yet despite our Herculean efforts. I want to add my picture to the books in his waiting area holding my baby with that grin of success and satisfaction. I'm angry that he is so confident that it is yet another random occurrence which makes the whole thing doubly worse.

And, I'm particularly angry that everyday irresponsible people who have no business reproducing have perfectly healthy children who they then abuse and kill. If I wasn't already an atheist, I think this would have sent me over the edge toward the religion-free lifestyle. It makes me want to bang my head against a wall.

But then I realize that these are all feelings that are part of the process. For as ugly as they are and as ugly as they make me feel, I know that they are natural and I probably would have real problems if I wasn't having them. We like to think that we are going to handle situations with grace and aplomb at all times, but frankly, that's impossible. The most we can strive for is to have enough introspection to recognize the feelings for what they are, have them and then move on.

It helps if you don't read the article in the New York Times about nesting during pregnancy, too. I will not bother linking to it here since it will probably just cause more misery for everyone else. I already made the mistake - no need to compound it for all you fine ladies.
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In other news, we finally received the results of the chromosomal analysis that we had run on each of us. We are both chromosomally normal, although, as Sweetie sagely pointed out, we are in every other respect probably off-the-charts abnormal. This is encouraging news (yay! we have no translocations!) but it's also frustrating (boo! we still don't have that smoking gun!). Shinejil - please chime in at any time here to remind me to be grateful. I think it's my turn.

I'm also able to resume bathing - that is taking long, luxurious bubble baths lit by candlelight while Wine Boy plies me with alcohol and tries to molest me as I read Madame Bovary and other scintillating fiction. Unfortunately for Wine Boy, we are on "pelvic rest" (I just love that phrase. Who on earth thought of that to denote no sex?) for two weeks. Ouch. Well, more for him. My ovaries are screaming at the moment as they regroup back into their normal size and I have no doubt that they would be extremely disapproving if there were extracurricular activities going on in their general area.

Also, I'm slowly beginning the transition over to temporarily making my new blog my more regular blog. So, continue to check over at A Year of Inconceivable Living for new posts. It's been rather quiet because of the drama of the last few weeks, but I hope to get more prolific. I will continue to post here about infertility, post-miscarriage travails and other related topics, but I want to begin focusing on our break which I plan to do exclusively at this other blog.

And, to my dear friends in the computer who are pregnant, I must beg a favor - I'm having a hard time reading your blogs right now, so I wish you the absolute best but please forgive me for not stopping by for a while. Be well and I hope I will be able to give you the same wonderful encouragement down the line that you have given me.

bath image: amishah

Analogies

I haven't been to the appointment yet. No new news. I just need to blow off some of these thoughts.

** Spotting Watch - nothing really overnight, dark brown this morning. **

image: dieselbug2007I totally rocked the verbal portion of the SATs when I was in high school (math, not so much). I was particularly good at the analogies. I had a particular gift for the subtleties that are involved in these. With this scare and the memories of my last miscarriage resurfacing, I was struck by my own SAT-esque analogy about trying to get pregnant:

Trying to have a baby is like dating.

Here's the thing. You meet someone for the first time, you're interested and you think, this is going to be pretty easy. You begin to reveal yourself and slowly open your heart to the person. Sometimes, this happens with little drama and the person accepts your heart as it is with all of its flaws and quirks. Other times, you aren't so lucky. The person stomps on your heart, and makes you generally wish you hadn't even started the whole process.

If you are one of the legions to suffer infertility, it would certainly seem like you are already destined to start heading down the second road. That road is cemented when subsequent pregnancies have complications, or worse, ends in miscarriage or still birth (with or without infertility preceeding it). As much as infertility, experiencing a pregnancy that does not end happily is, as far as I'm concerned, the equivalent of getting your heart stomped on.

But, as humans have realized and written about for millenia, you have to put it out there, you have to try, otherwise, you will never even have a chance at the happiness that could result.

There is the inclination, however, to retain some of your heart the next time around to try to prevent the full effect of a subsequent stomping. I have definitely tried to do that here, but I can't help but miss the full effect of letting go with the innocent assumption that you will be caught while you are falling.

image: Vicki's Pics

Getting Back on the Horse

image: yark64
The one and only time that I broke a major bone (you know, not like a toe) was when I was thrown off a horse when I was about 7 or 8. I knew it was going to happen from the moment I got on the horse. I loved horses and I took lots of horseback riding lessons. I was extremely fortunate that the school I attended had horseback riding (no, it was not a public school - that hell came later) and I was able to spend many afternoons grooming the horses or perfecting my posting. I hadn't made it to cantering or jumps yet, but I was getting there.

The horse that threw me was named "Johnnie" and I remember exactly what he looked like. He was a chestnut with a white diamond on his forehead and he had what my husband would classify as 'tude. I didn't want to ride him that day because he was being particularly ornery. And, I knew even at that tender age that you don't mess with a horse that's ornery. But, they said, "oh no, it'll be fine."

They had set him up on a lead line - they tie the reins on the pummel of the saddle, put attach a lead to the horse's bridle and then direct the horse in circles with you on the horse. I seem to recall that the purpose was to begin me on cantering with a little "let's-get-to-trust-the-horse" thrown in for good measure. While I had no problem trusting horses in general, I had a major problem trusting this horse. We started off fine but it went down hill when they decided to give him a little whack to move into a canter. He didn't like the whack, bucked and so off I went (since of course, I had NO REINS!). I landed on my right arm and remembered that it hurt. Turns out I had a hairline fracture right below my shoulder and didn't even get a cast for my trouble. I had a sling and had to learn how to write lefty-style which so didn't go well.

What's my point in telling this sob story? It's that I knew even then that the only way for me to overcome my fear of being thrown again was to literally get back on a horse (although, not that horse, please). And I did. It was not a triumphant return and I don't think that I handled it well, but I did it. Did it magically erase my terror? No, and I learned that I will probably always have a little bit with me since I have had that experience. But, I learned that I could do it. image: Big Grey Mare

I feel the same way about being pregnant again. You would think that doing it again would give you some sense of power and achievement when in reality I am terrified. I know first hand what can happen and how awful it is. I'm practically in denial that I'm pregnant because I am so afraid of getting excited again and getting smacked up side the head. I haven't really looked at due dates (late September? eh?), I certainly have not pulled out the name list we started last time, and we haven't even told Sweetie's parents (who also didn't know about the IVF). It's just like when I was going through the IVF - one day at a time. Otherwise, I will look forward to each milestone as the time when the fairy tale will come crashing down. I know that I am trying to assume that it won't work out because I can't bear to let myself begin to hope. Not yet.

The good news is that my beta today was 191. So, in 48 hours, it *almost* completely doubled from 98 on Wednesday. A true double would be 196. I have decided that I'm not going to be concerned about those 5 little whatevers and take comfort that Dr. Uterus is so far not concerned. And my progesterone is still apparently quite astronomical.

Next hurdle: first OB scan (OMG, OMG, OMG) the week of Feb. 25. It was at my last OB scan that things went south so this will be hard to say the least. I hope I don't have flashbacks. I also hope that Sweetie will be with me this time.

For now the lesson is to just breathe. Deeply. As often as necessary.
image: gratiella
ps: Ironically, I haven't ridden a horse since the time I got back on the horse, but I'm not afraid of them and I still love to pet their wonderfully soft schnozzles (read = noses).

This is My Mantra, This is My Crutch

This so sums up how I'm feeling right now:

image: Mr. T in DC
I live in a fantasy world that I could be pregnant. Cramps? Check. Weepies? Check. ADD? Check. A really bad case of the crankies? Check. Boobs a little tender? Check. More peeing than usual? Check. Random sneezing? Check (that is so a symptom, people!).

To counteract this fantasy, I have been repeating the following mantra: I'm probably not pregnant, it's just the progesterone. Or allergies. Or annoyance with the job that is my life. Or my period on its way. Or. Or. Anything but that which I want the most.

This is my mantra! / This is my crutch! / This is for coping! / This is too much!

I bet you saucy minxes are asking, "Mrs. X, why don't you just go POAS?" Ah, were it that easy. See, I have a pathological aversion to taking an HPT. Part of it stems from my very real concern of a false positive as a result of the HCG trigger. That would just totally and absolutely suck. I also don't have any HPTs in the house and I don't feel like getting The Look at CVS or Walgreens when I surreptitiously slide the test across the counter. And I have always equated HPTs to that shameful feeling you have as a teenager when you think you're pregnant and the only way to find out is to go and pee on the stick of doom. So, the answer would be "no". I will not POAS.

Instead, I will continue my current practice of distraction which now includes trying to think of all of the things that I can do should the test be negative. Bath? Check. Wine? Check, check. Gardening? Check. Heavy lifting? Check. Diet Coke? Check please.

We're in total self-preservation time, people. It's going to get ugly.

The Post In Which Mrs. X Has Deep Thoughts

Now that the hoopla and busy-ness of ovary monitoring, egg retrievals, embryo reports and embryo transfers has gone away, I'm left to wait. When I wait, I dwell. When I dwell, I inevitably think un-positive thoughts. Let's face it, you usually don't dwell on positive thoughts - its the negative ones that sneak in and begin to mulitply. (image: wani abdullah )


I am just getting that feeling as if the die is finally set and what will be will be. Normally, I actually find a lot of relief in that thought because it means that worrying can't do anything and therefore, I shouldn't worry. But this time, unlike all of the other steps that we have gone through with IVF, there is no next step, there is no chance to pull things out. Either the embryo(s) implant or they don't and all that stands between me and that test is a lot of time.

It is hard not to place a crushing amount of weight on the outcome of that test. You want to be positive so that you aren't harming your body with negative thoughts, but you don't want to think too positive lest you get horribly crushed should things go wrong. This is the seventh time I have been in the medicated 2ww and I have still not found that perfect balance, that alchemy between hope and caution that allows me to live through the 2ww without driving myself crazy while not getting my hopes up so high that I fall to the ground faster than you can say "infertility sucks". Inevitably, my positive thoughts turn to that wonderful delusion that I could be pregnant. And I always, always feel lilke an idiot for thinking it when the test comes back negative.

I would like to say that I'm preparing myself for a negative. That's probably partly true. I think, though, which each negative result, I'm learning how to shrink my hope that much more to prevent further heartache. Yet, I also feel guilty that I'm buying into a self-fulfilling prophecy if I prepare myself for a negative.

In the end, I am once again reminded that I can't really control anything and I have done the absolute best that I can. I'm eating well, not drinking, no chugging the Diet Coke, and am faithfully doing the PIO injections (which are actually getting less painful - yay!). But, it just doesn't seem enough. Can I just hibernate until next week?

Take Hand. Smack Forehead. Repeat.

Mrs. X thinks she's normally pretty savvy. She's manuevered through the gauntlet of serious infertility treatments for over a year now and only twitches occasionally. Sure, she's grown a third eye in her forehead from all of the hormones (kidding), but she has survived the slings and arrows of insurance issues, repeated encounters with the speculum, and butt shots. But for all her savvy, her moxie and yes, her hard-won infertility wisdom, she has not absorbed one simple, yet elegant lesson:

Do not under any circumstances share your infertility details with your next door neighbor.

When we moved into this house a few years ago, I was not here for more than three hours when she came over and introduced herself while trying to find out how much we paid for the house. Nice. Back then, we were still in the honeymoon phase of trying meaning we hadn't figured out that something was wrong and it was just a matter of time before I would be sporting a pooch. Back then, I still told people that we were trying - although I don't remember if she found out because she asked if we had kids. That would be the most likely scenario.

Anywho, she has a mind like a steel trap and has asked for updates as the months (and now years) have gone by. She knew about our IF treatments and about my miscarriage and was very nice. I have been avoiding her ever since my miscarriage because I knew she would ask whether things had gotten back on track. Well, last weekend, she cornered me and in her oh, so point blank manner asked how "things" were going. There was no point in playing dumb and I told her that we were doing IVF. She oohed and aahed and vaguely mentioned wanting more details. Luckily, she had to go before she could extract the details.

Today, I took over some cake because they helped us out last weekend on some stuff and of course, I had to spill the beans.

Nosy Neighbor: So, tell me how things went!
Me: Fine. (blah, blah, details, details). We had the transfer on Friday.
Nosy Neighbor: So they're in you right now?!
Me. Um. Yea.
Nosy Neighbor: You're with child? You're with embryo?
Me: [seriously uncomfortable now, making non-committal noises]. Uh.
Nosy Neighbor: When do you find out?
Me: In two weeks (I fudged the date - no one knows except me and Sweetie).
Nosy Neighbor: Oh, I have to put it on my calendar!
Me: No! Don't do that! I don't want everyone in the universe tracking the date. [She thankfully steps away from her calendar]
Nosy Neighbor: I hope you have twins. I can't wait till my kids have grandchildren and then I can cuddle a baby and give it back.

WTF?! Ok, I will try to have twins just for you because you requested. Any other requests? Boy/girl twins? Girl/girl? Triplets, perhaps? Do you have any names you would like to request now before the list gets started? Un-freakin'-believable.

I was able to impose the "don't call me, I'll call you" rule on the results. If it is negative, the last thing I need is to have her calling me and me having to repeat it.

She also told me that the neighbors up the street (the wife is a teacher at the local school) are going to start trying next month. I have no doubt that she got this intelligence straight from the wife's mouth, probably through some form of interrogation. I will not try to dwell on the fact that they will likely get pregnant pretty easily with few problems and sail through. I will try to be thankful that the wife may siphon some of Nosy Neighbor's attention from away from me. I won't swing by and warn the wife that she's guaranteed herself requests for monthly updates on the state of her uterus.

Nope, I will just practice learning how not to share with her. Either that, or I will declare that I have decided to stop seeing people and to become a hermit. I don't think she'll accept either. image: aynne

In Black and White

(image: FSSE-INFO) Today's event was that Sweetie and I met up at the IVF lab to sign le paperwork for the retrieval tomorrow. I had copies of all of the forms ahead of time, but didn't bother to read them until last night. I was pretty familiar with the doom and gloom in them (if your children turn out to be freaks, you can't sue us) since it was similar to the papers that we had to sign at Dr. Uterus' office, but it was still sobering to read it all.

Last night, Sweetie and I went through the multiple choice maze of options for any embryos that we manage to get to freeze in the event of an unpleasant contingency. What do we do with the embryos if I die? If he dies? If we both die? If we get divorced? If I have a hysterectomy? We had choices like disposal in an ethical manner (I don't even want to contemplate what that actually entails), continue to store, or donate to an infertile couple. It was a no-brainer if either one of us died (the other would get them). If we both died, we directed that they be donated to an infertile couple. But, if we got divorced, we elected to have them disposed of - I would have a very hard time knowing that my child could be out there without me (or their siblings) knowing it. The hysterectomy scenario would result in continue to freeze the embryos, on the assumption that we would want to use a gestational surrogate, assuming we didn't have the brood that we wanted.

I was just struck by how weird it is to be discussing the fate of your potential future embryos while you're making dinner. Most people will never even have to think of that scenario much less fill out of page of multiple choices as to what to do in various depressing situations. Another uniquely infertility experience.

Sweetie, apparently, was very freaked out by the consent forms for the egg retrieval and IVF because of all of the terrible things that could happen which were enumerated in exacting detail. He is apparently quite worried about genetic abnormalities and was still slightly convinced that Dr. Freak Out had it right that our prior miscarriage was his fault. I disabused him of that notion by explaining that Turner's is caused during the meiosis stage, or when the cells start to divide, not at the moment of conception and not in the wonky sperm.

We also talked about the statistics that show that IVF births have no substantial increase in genetic defects than the normal population. I reminded him that we could have a genetic problem even if we got pregnant without ART. And, we had already discussed with Dr. Uterus the issue of whether ICSI caused greater numbers of birth defects. Personally, I suspect that the higher numbers of genetic problems resulting from ICSI can be correlated to the fact that the procedure is used for men who have severe morphology problems and incredibly wonky sperm to begin with. Sweetie is not one of those men.

I did ask him if he didn't want to continue and he immediately responded "Nooooo! I want to continue!" I was glad that we talked about his concerns since it seems that a lot of time we discuss my concerns rather than his.

I also took my four antibiotics this evening and promptly felt like I was going to barf, hurl. ralph, and whatever other adjective you want to use for vomit (which I always thought was an ugly word). I think Zithromax should now have this label because it is exactly how I felt:

Mr. Yuck indeed. I am feeling much better now. Especially after I stopped watching Celebrity Rehab with B-, C- and D-listers barfing everywhere and generally moaning as they detox.

I don't know how coherent I will be tomorrow so all of you lovely ladies who still continue to read this saga may have to wait until Wednesday for an update. Till then, so long, farewell.

Bigmouth Strikes Again

I was reminded yesterday of the lyrics to that seminal Smith's song, "Bigmouth Strikes Again" off of their album, The Queen is Dead. They came to me as I was having a phone call with the embryologist going over Sweetie's SA results.

Bigmouth oh ho ho ho ah la/ Big mouth, oh ho la la/ Bigmouth strikes again/ And I've got no right to take my place/With the human race

What, you ask could she have said that would earn these lyrics in particular? This woman put me through the wringer.

We have lots of information about Sweetie's counts from our six IUIs with Dr. Uterus, but the embryologist, Dr. Freak Out, had to have her own to review. So, Sweetie went to her office and "produced" the specimen. (He also reported that her "collection room" wasn't as nice as that of Dr. Uterus, which I call the Spooge Closet, but he was happy to have some new, er, literature.)

She called me with the results and prefaced them with a question as to whether Sweetie has been sick recently. Apparently, his motility was down from his prior IUI counts and it was in her "poor" range. As we were talking, she became convinced that something must be up since his motility was down (although the volume and viability were both in the normal range) from his prior counts. She warmed to her topic of poor motility and began to talk about the troubles of low motility while throwing ICSI around (which we were going to do at 50% of the fertilizations with anyway) and then prefacing that it also depended upon how many eggs I produced. Essentially, she spouted gloom and doom.

She also asked about our previous history and I told her of the one pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. We had a karyotype performed and determined that there was a chromosomal abnormality, specifically a monosomy or Turner's Syndrome. Dr. Uterus assured us that this was a random occurrence and it was just a luck of the draw. There was nothing that either Sweetie or I contributed that caused it. Dr. Freak Out, on the other hand, started musing as to how strange it was that the one sperm that managed to fertilize the egg was able to produce a monosomy.

As if that wasn't enough, then she starts going on about how she has seen a correlation in her experience between low motility and abnormalities in resulting babies. Finally, she reminded me that since I had tubal surgery (mind you over a year ago), my chance of an ectopic increased. Thanks. So, to recap: according to Dr. Freak Out, my husband has abnormal sperm, we are doomed if he gets me pregnant again and we might as well just turn to donor sperm. That's essentially what we got out of the conversation.

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt/Now I know how Joan of Arc felt/As the flames rose to her roman nose/And her walkman started to melt

Not surprisingly, I called Sweetie as soon as I hung up with Dr. Freak Out and he freaked out. We had a tense conversation about what it means and how to go forward. He even asked if I wanted to cancel the cycle, to which I said no. The second call I made was to Dr. Uterus' office to see if he knew what this crackpot was talking about. I didn't end up talking with Dr. Uterus until today and I learned some very important facts.

1) Dr. Freak Out is not a medical doctor. She has a PhD, hence the doctor but she is certainly not a doctor who can dispense advice and genetic counseling. She was way out of line.

2) Sweetie's sperm are very likely just fine and Turner's is not caused by a pre-existing chromosomal abnormality in the sperm. It happens when the cells start to divide.

3) His motility is also not something to worry about, even if it was lower than his prior numbers.

Dr. Uterus is going to have a chat with Dr. Freak Out and remind her that this is not the kind of thing that you discuss with IVF patients. But, the freak out did give Sweetie and I a chance to discuss what we are comfortable with in terms of donor gametes. At this point, I told him, I am still very invested in having my own pregnancy, so I would go for donor sperm before adoption. He was ok with that.

Luckily, it looks as if we don't have to have that conversation again. And, hopefully, Dr. Freak Out has learned a valuable lesson on filtering.

Why Can't You?

I can just hear what my dad would say: "Why can't you just be happy for her?" Why, indeed. Why can't I share my best friend's pregnancy with her? Why can't I be stronger? Bigger? Nicer? Why did I send her an email begging her forgiveness that I couldn't really bear to hear about her pregnancy (I couldn't even type of the dreaded "p" word) and that I needed to be selfish right now?

I would have to explain the feeling of utter sadness that I feel everytime I think about how she is having a nice uneventful pregnancy after a relatively uneventful period of trying to conceive. I would have to discuss how difficult it is for me to think about how she's probably feeling movement now and I'm feeling the condom wand three times a week to see how my follicles are doing. I would have to explain how it still pains me that we lost our baby that we worked so hard to conceive.

I know what I would say to me if I heard that. "Suck it up and get over it." Were it that easy. The thing is that it's not something you just get over. It's actually easy when it's someone you don't know that well. Unless you see them often, you probably won't get many updates until the blessed event arrives. But with best friends, your obligations are a lot more involved. I feel incredibly guilty that I am asking to be let out of this particular obligation.

I sometimes think I should be stronger. And I feel guilty for not being strong. I feel guilty for being selfish and not sharing this with her. But I also know that right now, I would not be a very good friend, no matter how hard I would try. I would be the Debbie Downer in the room. And, I will tell myself that it is better not to be there than to be a Debbie Downer.

I just hope that I can forgive myself while simunltaneously giving myself permission not to feel guilty anymore that this is one thing I can't do and that's ok.

Just Passing Through

Even though it is all-consuming and can take years to play out, I think infertility (as a condition - not as a mindset) is actually temporary. We will always carry its scars, but the active treatment phase will be over at some point, either as a result of a pregnancy, adoption, or choosing to remain childfree.

But the time that we are in treatment, that transitionary stage during which you endure the rigors of infertility is, as far as I am concerned, purgatory. In Roman Catholicism, purgatory is the third state, between heaven and hell in which souls that are not sufficiently free from sin are unable to enter heaven. They are also not sinful enough (is that like being the Diet Coke of Evil?") to warrant going to hell.

Purgatory is the state of purification for these souls to free them of sin, usually through pain and fire, so that they can ascend to heaven. (Back in the day, you could also buy indulgences to stave off some of the pain of purgatory. I think there is a good argument that infertility clinics are the new indulgences to buy our way out of the purgatory of infertility. They certainly charge enough. But where is our Martin Luther?)

It is always difficult, though, to see those that you came in with leave before you. Even though all of us dealing with infertility have infertility in common, we do not have outcomes in common. I browse through other people's blogrolls and see all of the new positives and discussions of ultrasounds in the first trimester for girls who have struggled for years. It is wonderful to see those who have struggled get to where they want to be, but it also illustrates how transitory this state is. One month could be the difference between being on the infertile side of the coin to being on the pregnant side of the coin. It is also difficult, though, because when you are still on the infertile side, you feel as if you are once again missing the boat. You're not invited to prom. In other words, you're still not pregnant.

I think Tertia put it very succinctly: "those who have succeeded ... know that there is a (happy) ending to their journey. Their journey is finite. Those still trying don't know. They don't know if they will ever succeed." In other words, we don't know when we will get to move on from purgatory to our next destination.

Anyone have some indulgences I can buy to move things along?

Shhhh! Sleeping Ovaries!

I went in for my baseline scan today as Big Red showed up right on time on Tuesday. Normally the baseline scan I have done is for an IUI to see if the roiding from the last cycle had sufficiently quieted down. This time it was to see if my ovaries were in nice Lupron-induced hibernation.

And you know what? They were.

They are happy sleeping ovaries that are about to woken up to the banging on the door with the fiercest round of Menopur they have ever seen. I can only imagine what kind of noise they are going to make. They make enough racket on two vials, Lord only knows what four starting out of the gate is going to do. I have a feeling that there will be enough twinging that I will feel like there is a pinball pinging around my mid-section. Oh, the joys of screwing with the reproductive cycle.

On a sad note, I also had my last glass of wine and bath this evening since I start on the Menopur tomorrow. I can live without the booze, but in the winter, there is nothing better than sinking into a tub of hot water with bubbles and good book. Like all things we give up for IF treatments, however, I will certainly live.

Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don't

It never ceases to amaze me the phenomenon of conflicting public opinion. It is well documented in politics where people state that they want one thing and vote for the exact opposite and there is no clear reason as to why. In the complex arena of family planning, women are given mixed messages everywhere they turn, doctors, society, their friends, their family.

Mixed Message No. 1: don't wait too long to have babies! You never know when your eggs are going to go kaput! And, remember society begins to lose empathy with women who put off child bearing until their late 30s because - oh the horror - they wanted a career and end up having trouble getting pregnant. (Need to rent a uterus? You shouldn't have waited!)

Mixed Message No. 2: what do you mean you're 25 and trying to get pregnant?! You should get your career started or you'll be stuck at home with wailing babies and the entire workforce will pass you by! This mixed message was amply demonstrated in a Washington Post article yesterday about women who have careers but are having their children in their 20's. The girls were being villified by their friends and society in general.

In the end, the only message to listen to is your own. Women should start trying to have a baby when they are ready, not when society tells them that they should. And it is nothing more than Monday morning quarterbacking to say that someone should have done things differently.