Fertility results + MTHFR -- Say WHAT?

I got my results back from my fertility blood work. Well, I actually called to ask about it and was told everything came back normal and that I'd be getting a letter in the mail. And I did on Saturday. It detailed my results for a wide array of tests.

Anti-Mullerian. This is your ovarian reserve. For someone my age (34), the number should fall somewhere between 0.176 to 11.705. My result is 7.644, which is apparently solid, indicating a good number of eggs.

My thyroid test came back totally normal.
My ANA screen was negative.
Anti-cardiolipin antibody, Cardiolipin, APC resistance -- all great numbers.

The receptionist had said everything was normal, so I kind of breezed through my report feeling like I aced a test. And then I dug into the MTHFR results . . . where I did a double-take. I saw a pesky "ABN" meaning abnormal next to the MTHFR c.665C>T (formerly known as C677T) and the word "heterozygous" -- WHAT?

I thought everything was "normal" . . . but seeing an abnormal result did make some sense.

The doctor's note on the letter included with my tests said that he wanted me to start daily Lovenox injections upon seeing a positive pregnancy test. I was all sorts of confused but assumed maybe it was a broad protocol if you've had recurrent loss issues in the past. I had made a note to call about that, but when I saw the MTHFR mutation, I immediately realized why he had recommended this course of treatment.

Because I'm a mutant.

OK. Back up.

What is MTHFR besides looking a lot like "m*therf*cker"?

I first encountered it when I was searching to find out why I kept miscarrying. In different TTC boards, women would all be talking about getting tested for MTHFR. I saw it come up so frequently, and I had planned to be tested for it . . . and then got pregnant with Eloise. This time around, I decided to ask to be tested because it affects more than pregnancy.

MTHFR is an important enzyme in the body that helps convert folic acid/folate into L-methylfolate. When this enzyme function is compromised, it can crop up as a number of different health issues. A heterozygous result means that I have a mutation of one of the two genes. In short: My body has tremendous difficulty processing folic acid in vitamins, foods, etc.

Hetero is the "less severe" version, but it's still associated with recurrent pregnancy loss, neural tube defects, among many other medical issues. And according to my results, some 35 percent of European Americans may have this mutation. So, it's actually not that rare. It's just relatively new as something people are treating and discovering.

Side note: I was foolish and didn't check with insurance before asking for this test. I'm now worried how much it cost! But I suppose it was important, regardless.

If you're curious to learn more about this mutation, I encourage you to do research. I'm just learning more than the absolutely basics. The U.S. National Library of Medicine has a good overview. So does the Genetic and Rare Diseases Information Center. And here it is explained in plain English.

I have more to say on this topic, but I didn't want to go too deep today. I mostly wanted to say that I found something out that may have at least something to do with recurrent pregnancy loss. Losing three or more pregnancies in a row is like a 1 percent possibility. I've always wondered in the back of my mind WHAT was up with it. And it's something that still worries me going forward. And also because I could have passed it onto my kids.

I ended up meeting with my doctor yesterday, and I'll be sure to write more about that soon. But this is already quite long!

Do you have an MTHFR mutation? How has it impacted your life? Any suggestions?

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Weirdest TTC Tricks

A lot of our TTC journey for Eloise was pretty dark, you know? But there were some moments we just had to laugh. I spent countless hours on forums sussing out the best techniques to get and stay pregnant. I mean, there's some insane stuff out there. I thought it would be interesting to share the wackiest methods I found, some of which I tried . . . and others I didn't. But I'll leave the guessing up to you.

Disclaimer: This is not medical advice. I am simply sharing the TTC tricks I have found from the bellows of the internet in my most maddening times of infertility/recurrent miscarriage. Please discuss taking any supplements and doing anything else drastic to change your routine with your doctor.

Pre-Seed Lube

Want to get pregnant fast? Pre-Seed Lubricant has you covered. Other lubricants may actually hinder the sperm's journey, but Pre-Seed gets those swimmers where they need to go in record time. This stuff is pricey, but it boasts a "clinically-proven" reputation, apparently mimics your own fluids, and may even help support sperm quality. Some women in TTC forums (you know -- infertility lore) believe this stuff helps more abnormal sperm get to the egg, increasing chances of miscarriage.

Instead Softcups

You know the Diva Cup and Luna Cup? Well, there's a disposable version of this period-catching device called the Instead Soft Cups. Women across the web explain that you can insert these guys after having sex to help keep the sperm next to the cervix, supposedly greatly increasing chances of conception. Not only that, some say they have their partner, uh, deposit into the cup and then insert if there's no time to do the deed on an important day (some same-sex couples even used this method to help with donor sperm).

Ovulation Kits

Using OPKs, as they are affectionately called in short-hand, isn't too weird. It's taking them multiple times a day -- 3 or 4 times -- that's the trick. Women say you can miss your surge unless you're really keeping track. Some believe the surge shows up most in the morning urine. Others say in the afternoon. Whatever the case, these strips measure the LH hormone that is present during ovulation. When the test line is darker than the control, it means ovulation will happen within a day or so. My advice? Use cheap test strips versus the electronic versions. The fancy and expensive type with smiley faces were confusing. My friend gave me a TON of her leftover cheapies, and I took them to my heart's content until I got pregnant with Eloise.

Maca

Word on the street is that taking this popular health food -- Maca Powder -- may do a number of things to help your chances of getting pregnant -- fast. Some women say it immediately helps balance their hormones and makes ovulation stronger. It may also increase libido, all while having some benefits for men with regard to fertility and virility. Others report that they stop ovulating while taking it. And some others say it worked for them after the second or third month of taking it.

Royal Jelly

I will fully admit I definitely did the Royal Jelly thing. Why am I sharing that I did this one? I believe it may work. I actually learned about it from a reader. What is it? Well, it's a supplement made from a secretion made by honey bees intended to nourish their larvae. It tastes like honey. The two months I used Royal Jelly (Stephen did, too!), I got pregnant. The first ended in a miscarriage and the second ended in Eloise. I took a heaping teaspoon in the morning and at night. Then I stopped taking it in the two-week wait. Both of the months I took it, my ovulation felt very strong and happened many days earlier (day 16 and -- on the month Eloise was conceived -- day 14 versus day 18-20).

Seed Cycling

I wrote a post about Seed Cycling a while back. Here's installment I and installment II for your reading pleasure. The idea here is that you may balance your hormones (estrogen/progesterone) by eating certain seeds at different times in your cycle. You eat one tablespoon each ground flax and pumpkin seeds in day 1 of your cycle through ovulation. Then you eat one tablespoon each ground sunflower seeds and sesame seeds from ovulation through your period. Yes. You can probably tell I am admitting I tried this trick, too. I put the seeds in a morning smoothie. I got pregnant with Eloise the month I did it. Who knows!

Progesterone Cream

Progesterone Cream seems like a favorite baby-sticking trick for women who may not qualify to get prescription progesterone supplements. Some women with PCOS even report using it to try and suppress ovulation for several months in hopes of making a stronger ovulation. You simply apply the cream to different parts of your body to try and supplement your body's own stores. This trick is often brought up in forums among women who have had multiple miscarriages -- people seem to either swear by it or say it totally does nothing compared to prescription supplements.

Temperature via Vag

I've written about tracking basal body temperature using a special thermometer. I do think this method works because it helps you see what your body might be up to ovulation-wise. I was even able to "predict" an early miscarriage this way. Basically, many women get a temp spike around ovulation each month. In the second phase of your cycle, progesterone in your body keeps temps high. If they don't plummet, you may be pregnant. If they do, you'll likely get your period. Anyway, the trick here is that taking the temperature in your vagina -- yes, just do it -- is way more effective than taking it in your mouth. You can learn so much about this whole thing in the bestselling book Taking Charge of Your Fertility.

Ferning

You can also buy a special Ferning Microscope to help monitor when ovulation might occur. You put your saliva in the scope and then look at it. When it create a ferning pattern, it's time to get busy. This tool gets mixed reviews. It's the size of a lipstick case, so it's easy to take wherever you're going. And it is potentially very helpful if you have irregular cycles and have absolutely no idea when you might ovulate based on the calendar.

Alternative Medicine, etc.

Some women think getting a chiropractic adjustment got them pregnant. Others say it's acupuncture that helped balance their chi and helped their body accept a pregnancy. I believe taking on a regular yoga practice lowered my stress levels and -- possibly -- helping me conceive. (Though, I do not believe that stress causes miscarriage ONE BIT.) What I want to add with this bullet is that if you're in the terrible trenches of a long TTC journey, you'll probably run across a lot of articles -- like this one -- where women SWEAR that X, Y, or Z made it SO EASY.

I am not trying to diminish anyone's feelings, but there are several camps of TTC-ers you'll encounter. What you may come across most often are women who don't get pregnant the very first month they try . . . that "miraculously" get pregnant by trying a number of popular tricks within a couple months. The thing is, it often takes several months for healthy couples to conceive naturally. So, many hints and secrets you come across need to be taken with a double margarita, rim lined with lots of salt.


I hope you found this post interesting. Like I said, I cannot say these things work or don't work. Sometimes just trying something can help you get through the madness and feel like you have some control when, in reality, maybe you really don't. Some of these things, like eating seeds, don't seem to hurt. Others, like taking hormonal creams, might. So, again. Discuss any big changes to your routine with your doctor. 

Related Posts

Actively Trying 
9 Weeks + 4 Days D&C 
Moving Forward or Trying
The Girl Who Cried "Pregnant!"
Early and Recurrent Pregnancy Loss
Healing My Infertility Wound

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Healing My Infertility Wound

I was a complete mix of emotions this time last year. We were on our second cycle trying again after my missed miscarriage in the spring. I had several procedures and tests on the books to figure out why I kept miscarrying. Everything up until that point had come to the conclusion: Unexplained. The frustration had accumulated to an amount so crushing that I couldn't ignore it for more than half an hour. My life had become trying to get pregnant and, more importantly, trying to stay pregnant.

And I was starting to give up.

What I didn't know last year is that we'd suffer yet another loss, leading me to the bottom of the metaphorical ocean with hopelessness and despair. It sounds so intense to write now, but it was truly overpowering. All consuming. Terrifying, too. The next cycle, I became pregnant with Eloise. I still can't believe it happened. I still can't believe she's really here, healthy, and -- most times -- happy. As I sit typing today with an 8-week-old baby snoozing on my chest, I can tell you I feel some days like I've won the lottery.

After "conquering" our secondary infertility, I didn't expect to feel twinges of pain. I didn't expect to be transported back to the same emotions when I read pregnancy announcements or see bumps in my newsfeed. Or when people laugh and say how well we timed E's delivery with Stephen's work schedule. I didn't expect that there would still be times when all we went through seems so close beneath the surface. The severity has waned considerably, but there's still a lot I need to deal with to fully heal from the experience in my mind.

Has anyone else experienced this weird dichotomy of emotions?

There are times when I want to slap myself in the face and say: "You have no right to feel sad/angry/whatever -- you HAVE your baby. Others aren't so fortunate." And that really is the truth. We are fortunate, and I imagine that my feelings will get better -- as they have somewhat already -- with time. Heck. Some days I can't remember how we got here. Then I see flashes of all the OPKs, the doctor appointments, the positive tests, the negative ones, the blood and worse, the waiting for HCG numbers, the question marks, the calculating dates, the countless forum posts, etc.

It's got to take more time. Our recurrent pregnancy loss experience spanned over a year and we've had Eloise less than two mere months.

I came across an interesting essay on the topic of healing the wound of infertility. (It's on the RESOLVE site, which is a wonderful resource if you're going through infertility.) It made a lot of sense to me. Maybe in many ways, I have healed. But there's still that vulnerable, new skin that formed under the scab. That's what it feels like to me, at least. It's still sensitive to the touch. It still bears reminders of what cut it and how deeply. There will likely always be some scar that remains and will fade. The story will stick for life.

I wanted to write today to let all my friends dealing with infertility and pregnancy loss know that I'm thinking of you. It seems like it would be easy to just up and forget the battle once you've had your baby or moved on. Once you've "won." But, really, it isn't so simple and the "winning" feels bittersweet.

Love and strength to you, friends.

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Early + Recurrent Loss

Here's a continuation of our Actively Trying story. I'm sure you guys understand, but I've been delaying writing this post for a number of reasons.

• First, though my pregnancy seems to be going well, I always feel like I'm never going to be out of the woods. It's this nagging feeling, and it's gotten worse the more my belly has grown. 
• Second, I have wanted to make sure I can convey the right sensitivity to the subject -- the experience and emotions a woman (or couple, family, etc.) goes through can be vastly different. 
• Oh, and please count this as a disclosure because as much as I never intend to offend anyone, it happens somehow regardless. 
• Third, well, putting words to my feelings -- despite how it might seem -- isn't always easy. I've worked hard to "move on," so to speak, from this period. The thing is, it will always be a part of me and my story.

Here we go.


There are times when I feel like claiming stake to three miscarriages isn't totally fair to others who go through far worse. I said it. After all, my first miscarriage happened only months into trying, only days after my expected period. At the time, it was a bummer -- but surely isolated, right? The third, some 12 months later, was also within that mere fifth week of extreme early pregnancy. It's easy to disregard these pregnancies or diminish the hurt by telling myself the science.

These clusters of cells, embryos, never had heartbeats. Check. I never saw them on an ultrasound monitor. Check. And I never knew the sex, etc. Check, check, check. While that's all certainly true, but they still hurt . . . tremendously.

If you've TTC-ed for any amount of time, you know that tied to each cycle, there's this overwhelming feeling of hope. When you get that so-faint-it's-almost-white positive pregnancy test after months or years of trying, you get that buzz. You immediately start dreaming up what that little guy or girl will look like. Would he have thick, curly hair like Stephen? Would she have short, stubby legs like me? Looking up the due date: How wonderful it will be to have a fall/winter/summer/spring baby! Cue the images of impossibly adorable newborns -- your newborn -- wearing Santa outfits or sibling coordinated Halloween costumes.

The life your imagination starts painting from those initial moments is bursting with color and joy and you feel quite invincible for a short period of time.

You did it.
You created life.
It's growing inside you.
This thing you've wanted for so long is finally happening.

And when you find out that life is gone . . . no matter how soon . . . it digs deep. You start asking why. Wondering what you did wrong. You can't take comfort in the cold statistics or knowing that likely something was wrong with the baby's chromosomes, no matter how many times well-meaning friends or family say "it was probably for the best". You mourn the life that was but really wasn't. You bleed and cramp and hurt. And then you have to somehow reset and train your attention and emotional energy on trying again.

Another month of uncertainty.
Another month of agonizing waiting.
Another ride on the roller coaster.
I'll tell you, when months add up -- each day can feel like eons.

Last spring's miscarriage has been heavily weighing on me lately. I suppose it's because I remember so well at this exact time last year knowing that our baby was slowly fading away. With each OB visit, the heart rate would be slower. Our little guy or girl was hanging on, but we knew almost immediately we'd never hold him or her. I sat paralyzed in bed and stared at the wall a lot. At the time, I was beside myself and so confused.

Do we terminate knowing what's happening? (To which my old midwife informed me "Well, Ashley, that's abortion -- we don't do abortions here" and I sobbed at her: "Do you seriously think that's what I am asking for?!") Do we wait and see if there's a miracle? Do we all of a sudden decide to ask God or some higher power for help? Would a higher power even do this to us again?

And once we knew it was truly over, there was another long list of considerations to make. Do I wait for nature to take its course despite being violently ill? Will a D&C impact my future fertility? Will it hurt? Am I dishonoring the baby? Should I really wait three grueling months before trying again? Will this process ever result in a live baby? Will I ever stop crying?

I never thought I'd have two miscarriages in a row. That just doesn't happen to people like me. Never. I was 30 when we started to try for number two. 31, last March. Healthy. Fit. Diligent about medical care. I haven't partied in years and go to bed most nights by 10:30. So many friends -- both in real life an online -- came out of the woodwork to share that they, too, had had a miscarriage. They went on to have healthy pregnancies right away. Surely this, too, would pass.

And those three cycles of "break" from TTC were good for me. It was nice to not think about getting pregnant for a while. I got some mental strength back. I was so ready to start up again last June, so when it didn't happen right away . . . I seriously lost my mind. I started thinking about how unfair the whole thing was.

Two miscarriages?!
Where's my first-cycle-of-trying-again miracle baby?
Why am I so unlucky?
Why is that TEENAGER 40 weeks pregnant?
Why is that SMOKING person in her third trimester?

Judgements abounded, I assure you.

After the third, I'd read online of women who had seven or more miscarriages or stillbirths or infant loss and put myself in check. Was I making too much of all this? Was I just being crazy? But -- also -- is it really fair to compare stories? So much of my mental state was taxed with questioning. Analyzing every step, every symptom, every lifestyle choice, every doctor's recommendation . . . and if you've been there, I think you can understand how it just. takes. over. everything. EVERYTHING.

Surviving early and recurrent loss isn't something I think I did particularly well. I don't have any tips or tricks to share. I, well, merely s.u.r.v.i.v.e.d in the most basic sense of the word. Since my "fix" was a laughably simple cocktail of baby aspirin and progesterone, I do look back and wonder if these babies -- all of them -- were healthy. If my body was the attacker. I blame myself. I'm working on it, but I can't lie and tell you I don't think often about how I could right now be holding an eight month old, a five month old, or even be 5 weeks closer to my due date than I am now.

I mean, that's just insane to think about. I try my best not to go there.

As dramatic as this all sounds, I don't weigh all of these thoughts on my daily life at the present moment. I give them a place. I probably let loose once a week or every two weeks -- sometimes less frequently -- and allow myself to dwell in those moments. To muse over what might have been, but try to believe somehow there's a plan. Maybe?

There are the unexpected times when, say, I'll go to the doctor and go over my medical history . . . the whole "you've had 5 pregnancies?" thing definitely raises a few nurses' eyebrows, almost always followed by embarrassed, overly sympathetic "oh, I'm so sorry." Or when people ask now when I'm due and make a crack about how "wow -- hah hah -- you must have planned that baby perfectly with your husband's school schedule!" Or make a comment about how "something's in the water" because many of the moms in Ada's preschool are also pregnant. (I actually sometimes want to say "in my craziest moments -- I DID consider if SOMETHING in our water was causing all my miscarriages -- thank you!")

I choke back some tears and quickly compose myself. Like I said, as much as I put it all in a box, early and recurrent loss will always be a part of my story. What I've learned is that there's never a "too early" when it comes to pain of loss. There's never a "right" or "wrong" way to feel. So if you're going through this . . . let yourself feel. Let yourself mourn. And let yourself move on without feeling guilty. I'm working on that last part, but I think it's something that will happen in time.

Thanks for reading.

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Thoughts On Sibling Age Gaps

Blogging is really hard through all this infertility stuff. Not because of what I’m sharing. I like being upfront and honest. Plus, it’s hard to not share what’s going on in our lives. It’s just the nature of the blogging beast. However, I have to admit it's been especially hard for me lately because for each pregnant person I encounter in real life . . . there are like 10,000 or more bloggers/etc. who are pregnant or have gaggles of kids.

I try not to look. 

I try not to care. 

(Seriously. I don’t even know these people!)

I try to just do me. 

But as we approach October, it’s wearing on me. I dropped Ada off at preschool the other morning (in the midst of my latest miscarriage) and one of her sweet teachers from last year saw my stroller and said: “Oh! Who’s that in there? Ada said last year that you were expecting a baby!” And I just about lost it right there in the parking lot.

So much time has passed, and we’re just standing still. I am starting to feel like a barren alien.

You see, I used to have all these ideals and ideas surrounding age gaps. We knew we didn’t want to have kids back-to-back, so we planned originally to wait until Ada’s second birthday to start casually trying. Well, her surgery and recovery sort of sucked up most of the year. I don’t regret waiting, and we weren’t in a rush. TTC during all that would have been difficult if not impossible -- life happens, plans (hah!) change. 

And I certainly took my previous show of fertility for granted. Of course a baby would be waiting in the wings for us precisely when we were ready.

Right?

This is a long way to say we always wanted a three to four year age gap. By now, those possibilities have come and gone, and I’m (miraculously) feeling much more relaxed about the whole thing. My friends will probably tell you otherwise because I was absolutely o.b.s.e.s.s.e.d with it for a while. Looking back, I was actually just obsessed with why it wasn’t working out, why we kept losing pregnancies, and feeling some major desperation. I was also quite jealous since it seemed other families were able to “choose” their gaps. Heck, there are tons of articles written on the subject, entire forums dedicated to finding the “perfect” gap, etc.

Whenever I see a family at the store or otherwise out and about, I absolutely delight when I see larger gaps. Like, it gives me this HUGE boost. We’re mostly surrounded by kids with 2 to 3 year gaps. Many closer together as well. So, I feel like a hunter in the wild. “Stephen! I saw this family today with a girl who looked about age 8 and a baby!” Or “Did you see those kids? There’s GOT to be at least six years between them!” 

At this stage, I’m much less concerned with the size of the gap. Though, I’d be lying if I told you time doesn’t feel like some immense weight in all of this. I have watched so darned many pregnancies from start to finish and keep waiting (and waiting and waiting) for my turn. In other words: I’m more worried there won’t be an age gap at all. (Again, we are so incredibly blessed with Ada. Please don’t get me wrong. Secondary infertility is such a tricky subject. I am constantly reminding myself that I am grateful and blessed while still not feeling our family is complete.)

So, here it is. If you want another baby, try to have another baby. Don’t fret over perfect or right or what your friends are doing (so, so, so hard!). Don’t take your fertility for granted. Don’t spend hours researching or worrying your time away. But -- on the flip side -- don’t gloat about designing your perfect family. No one wants to hear that.

In the end, all gaps tell stories. Some are longer and have more chapters than others. And what works for one family (or, rather, happens) might not work or work out for yours.

Like what you just read? You can subscribe to the feed of these posts or follow us on Twitter or Facebook to be the first to know what the (never home)makers are up to. And we’ll love you forever!

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The Girl Who Cried “Pregnant!"

It’s hard to even know what to say at this point.

Last September we had a chemical pregnancy after a while of trying for baby number 2. I thought it was the absolute worst experience ever. What a joke. Second line on the test for a few days. Then . . . it disappeared. Surely it was a fluke. Everyone told me I’d be more fertile after the miscarriage, but it took another six months to get pregnant again with “perfect” timing.

When we got pregnant again in February, I felt much more optimistic. The line kept getting darker. I had symptoms! I even got wicked morning sickness for weeks on end. This was IT, I thought. How could lightning strike twice? I even saw the heartbeat on ultrasound a few times. And then we lost that one, too, but it was so much more painful and complicated emotionally and physically.

And now I’m going through my third loss in a year. Again, it’s a chemical pregnancy. I got a positive test the day I was due with my period. Several days later, I noticed the line wasn’t as strong. My levels were at a measly 12 yesterday. The doctor -- optimistic -- put me on progesterone supplementation, but the test went stark white negative this morning -- it’s just delaying the inevitable.

Autumn used to be my favorite season, but I can’t quite say it is anymore. Especially this year as my due date looms in late October. It isn’t to say that my chemical pregnancies mean less to me, but I didn’t have much tangible with them. They were there and then they weren’t. Like a bad dream. I thought for sure I’d be pregnant by Halloween. The idea was holding my sanity together.

I used to feel so above this infertility thing. Ada resulted from just one try the first month we thought we might want a baby. I didn’t understand or appreciate the difficulty. I didn’t understand or appreciate the emotional strain. And with my own current situation, I can no longer accept this trend as simple statistics or the fact that I’m now 30/31/32 versus 27 and it’s just part of the deal.

It feels all too personal now.

Obviously I’ll be working closely with my fertility doctor (and regular physician) from now moving forward. I’ll probably chat about it from time to time on the blog, but I’m growing tired of TTC being everything I eat, live, and breathe. I mean, I am totally sick of being the girl who cried “pregnant!” And then bumming everyone out. I don’t want to be this obsessively charting or tracking crazy person, but there’s good reason that I should. Relaxing won’t help in our situation, no matter how much yoga* I do or how many green smoothies I suck down.

At the same time, I consciously left my full-time job to work from home and be a mom. It was a hard decision, but one I wholeheartedly embraced. This feels like a huge slap in the face and it actually making me have a bit of an identity crisis. Do I go back to work full-time? Do I give up and accept that we’re destined to only have one child? These are obviously questions I should probably bring to a therapist. And before you suggest it, I’ve already been browsing around.

I’ve finally taken down the crib and packed away all the baby stuff I had prematurely stationed in the (hopefully someday?) nursery. I couldn’t look at it anymore. I want to believe I’ll need it all again. That is, if most of it isn’t recalled or expired by then. Secondary infertility is just . . . so . . . draining. I love Ada more than anything in the world, and I so much appreciate this amazing opportunity to be a mom. I just never envisioned my life taking this path.

And I’m so sorry if you’re right there with me/us.

* As an aside, lately when I go to start my calming + restorative yoga routines on YouTube, I’m greeted with a nice long ad for Plan B. Holy cow, if I have to see that one again! I mean, seriously!

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Disconnected

All those tiny onesies and clothes with snaps closures have been carefully packed away. The crib has been in storage for almost a year. Sippy cups gave way years ago to water bottles and drinking glasses. Bean sprout legs no longer rest still in a sling or carrier. Diapers are long gone, too -- even at night. The monitor is there mostly for show these days. And there’s not a single item I’ve needed in the Target baby aisles for quite some time.

We always knew we’d want to have our kids a good distance apart. And by that, I mean around 3-4 years, which really isn’t some gigantic gap. Still, we’re surrounded by friends with much closer ranges and -- everywhere we go -- it seems siblings sprout up like so many dandelions. This whole childbearing stage is like spring, bursting and blooming with life and love. There’s a special magic to it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t share I feel outside all that’s happening.

I felt this way even before everything that happened recently. Ada may only be three and a half, but in so many ways, she’s quickly transitioned from baby to toddler to preschooler. I just got her medical forms for pre-K. Actual state school, five mornings a week next year. The ages and stages all went so fast, but now that many of the milestones are gone, I’m floundering.

Where did the time go?
How are we here already?
What does it mean for me/our family?

Now that we’re beyond all those baby and toddler stages, I have no foot in those waters anymore. I’m unbelievably envious of the moms who tote tiny ones on their hips everywhere. I can’t remember what that feels like. I can’t remember what it feels like to hold a newborn. When I get the chance to hold a baby, I adjust my arms a gazillion times because I don’t feel like I’m doing it right. And I have no idea in what month babies start solids, when they begin to crawl, or at what age their first words start emerging in nonsensical babbling.

I always wondered what it would feel like without a tiny tot in the house, I just didn’t realize I’d get a taste so soon. I have shared many too many times that I (we) hope to have another child. I am immensely grateful for Ada. I love her so much, but I (we) have always dreamed of two children. So, and this might sound silly, all this can feel scary at times. The distance. The forgetting. Like I’m so out of practice, so removed . . . it might just never happen again. Of course, I’m not the first person to have a child and then down the line hope to have another five or more years later.

But when you’re packing up the last of all the baby stuff without another one on the way or to pass the outgrown clothes to, it sure feels final. Maybe it is, I keep questioning.

I found myself a tad overwhelmed while flipping through old photos yesterday afternoon. Maybe that’s where this venting originated. I looked at our lives just over three years ago in absolute wonder. That was ME? That was ADA? (Also: Check out Stephen’s fabulous HAIR!)


I looked at a few shots of my pregnant belly and can’t remember what the kicks and rolls feel like. The swollen feet or ongoing Braxton Hicks that plagued me. Or how relentless the early months of nursing and no sleep can be. Some of this stuff I don’t miss too much, but -- more than anything else -- I simply feel like it’s all over. Like it won’t happen again. Not because I don’t have faith it will . . . I just feel far removed.

Disconnected.

Does that make sense? I think a lot of this also has to do with the fact that eventually I’ll be seeing that fertility doctor. I have to deal with my diagnosed “infertility” again. I can’t have that cute story where we only thought something was wrong all those months we tried and then magically I got pregnant and everything was fine. Tied up in a bow. No, there’s definitely a pattern of weirdness, and I don’t know what the outcome will be. I guess that’s life.

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Miscarriage: What They Don’t Tell You

For those of you who read here mostly for food and fitness, I want you to know I’m nearing the end of wanting to write about my miscarriage. But I have had enough moments where I’ve had things happen or experienced something that I’ve wanted to share related to everything that happened exactly a month ago (I just know because I had blood work done this morning).

Regardless: I’m moving forward, or at least trying to.

Like I said, in the wake of my D&C, I’ve had some things happen. Or just been surprised, etc. Things I didn’t except. Things that were good . . . and others that weren’t. I wanted to share them here for anyone else who might be going through something similar. (And if you are, I’m so sorry for your loss.)

Your Body Does Its Own Thing

After my D&C, I had a week of night sweats very much like after I gave birth to Ada. It’s the hormones. I have even started losing my hair like after I gave birth to Ada. So weird. From everything I’ve read, women react differently to miscarriage and medical intervention. I only made it to around 10 weeks, but some even have their milk come in and other physical reactions as if the baby was born and in their arms. It adds insult to injury, but it’s something I totally didn’t know about until after the fact.

There Will Be Blood

As far as bleeding after a D&C, I was told I should expect pretty much nothing heavy. Maybe a regular period, but more likely not. I won’t go into details, but I had several days of crazy bleeding and more because part of the placenta wasn’t taken out during my procedure, so my body had to pass on its own. So, if you’re bleeding heavily or something is different, call your doctor. Many times, it’s completely normal (even a LOT of blood, clots, etc.) and you’ll get a prescription for something to make your uterus contract and get out whatever needs to happen to “complete” the miscarriage. I bled for three weeks after the D&C.

Your Period Might Take a While

I’m a full month out from the procedure, and I’m pretty sure my cycle isn’t returning anytime soon. The “normal” timeframe I was given by my doctor was around 4-6 weeks after to get that first period. But after that, the cycle might not be like clockwork. It might be heavier or lighter. It might be erratic, etc. Basically, except the unexpected. Usually your body will need to go under 5 mIU/IL of HCG to ovulate (or initiate a period otherwise). If you were up in the tens of thousands (or more), this can take time. Usually HCG levels drop by around half every 48 hours. But this can range due to a number of factors.

People Might Not Know What To Say

I’ve been fortunate to have a ton of supportive friends and family by my side. That being said, even the most supportive and amazing person might just not know what to say about stuff. I mean, it’s heavy. For example, Ada keeps telling my friends that her mommy is having a baby. My friends know the whole story. And this is hard to hear . . . but it’s hard for my friends to know what to say. It becomes this awkward moment. So, I’ve learned to just put it all out in the open and explain that I’m OK. That it’s OK to talk about it. That -- yes -- what Ada said is awkward for me too, etc.

Emotions Will Strike

I’ll have several days when I feel like I’m emotionally in a great place. But then something truly random will set me off. The other day I took Ada to Toys ‘R Us to get some art supplies. She needed to use the bathroom. And BAM. There we were in the middle of the crib section (which is where the bathroom is), surrounded by pregnant women, cribs, and tiny baby things. Another time, I was getting something out of the spare room closet and I had forgotten that I stashed these little baby booties back there. They fell on the ground, I had to pick them up, and I had a good cry. It’s OK to have this lurking below the surface for a while, it’s grief and it takes time. (I’m telling myself this, too.)

Your Partner Will Deal In His/Her Own Way

Stephen hasn’t expressed his emotions as freely as I have. But a couple weeks after the miscarriage, he came home and said that something he teaches each year completely caught him off guard that day. It was Hemingway’s six-word short story: “For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.” Yeah. When he told me, I about lost it. So, even if your partner isn’t crying as much as you are or talking about what happened, he or she is still coping in one way or another.

// Thanks

And to those of you who have written me with positive feedback about these posts, thank you. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m crossing a line into beyond-TMI territory. (I mostly definitely do.) At the same time, there are so many times I’ve been helped by something I’ve read online -- so I want to add my experience to the mix. It’s a crazy life, and we live in this age where we can connect with others who’ve experienced the stuff we’re going through.

Missed miscarriage is not something I ever imagined being a part of my story, but with the help of friends and those special internet connections, it’s been a lot less scary and devastating.

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Moving Forward // Or Trying

I’m feeling pretty good today. More like my old self than I’ve felt in a long while. The past month had sort of put me in this strange mental space of just waiting and watching and worrying. And now that I’m out of those intense stages, I’m moving slowly to healing. This is usually the time I make a lot of grand plans for losing weight, gaining fitness, or shifting some other part of my life considerably as a distraction. I think it’s a defense many of us use to help push past a difficult point in life. I know I do it all the time.

So, I’m resisting. I don’t have any measurable “goals” or things I’m hoping to accomplish. But I do have three solids months (or more) when TTC just isn’t going to factor into everyday life. In a way, I’m incredibly frustrated because I feel like most of the stories I’ve read haven’t ended with such a long wait. People get pregnant immediately and can just move on. In another way, I do think I could use a break mentally and physically from this madness. And the testing might prevent another miscarriage. I’m trusting my doctor and will take it day by day.

Instead of buying pregnancy tests these next three months, I’m hoping to spend that extra cash on food to nourish my body. I haven’t cooked in well over six weeks and most of our meals were takeout or assembly when I was sick. (Talk about $$$. Ugh!) We made dinner as a family last night where I ate salad, pasta, and polenta. It sounds simple and silly, but it was a tremendous moment to not find myself dry-heaving at the smells or totally turned off at my portions. Be gone, potato chips and ginger ale! If I lose weight, great. But I mostly just need my nutrition in line again. And we need to get back to family dinners.

Instead of tracking my ovulation day by day, I’m hoping to pay attention to the other part of my body again. When I first discovered I was miscarrying, I got these crazy ideas to sign up for a half marathon (the last time I ran more than 8 miles was back in January). Now I’ve tempered that urge considerably. I would just like to get back into a consistent fitness routine now that I have energy (yay!), time, and good weather on my side. There’s a challenging 10K in June in my hometown I’d like to tackle. Beyond that, I’d like to run 4 days a week and get back with Barre online workouts. Maybe sign up for a yoga class for some mental and spiritual attention as well.

Instead of analyzing every pinch and cramp, I’m hoping to take these months slow and soak in time with Ada. I’m sad to admit that this baby-making stuff has occupied my mind to the point of retreating within myself often. And that’s not uncommon or isolated just to me, so I’m not too hard on myself. That being said, this is an opportunity to enjoy my child without fretting over age-gaps or anything else. My children, if I’m lucky to have another, will not be close in age. There’s no planning or workaround. I have no control over it anymore. It will still take some time to feel OK picking up Ada from preschool when most of the other parents have another small child or two. That’s life, I guess.

Instead of feeling down at yet another negative test, I’ll continue to chat with friends who have been where I’ve been. It’s the best kind of therapy for me right now. I’ve had so many of my emotions, thoughts, and fears validated by my friends and family who have been through similar experiences of both difficulty getting pregnant and miscarriage. It makes me feel far less alone and much more “normal” to be experiencing the full range of stuff related to this process. What was a terrible, sad situation has turned into one with some goodness. I am definitely a stronger person after all this. It doesn’t mean I’m impervious to having bad days or small breakdowns. Everyday is a new opportunity to move forward and grow.

This time, this wait is an opportunity to heal in more ways than one. I am up for the challenge. I’m treating myself with care . . . and I’m not expecting my mind or body to follow any certain path to the finish. I’m surrounding myself by people who understand and can help guide me. I’m hoping to blog little things along the way that help me, whether it’s a recipe or a workout . . . a mind-dump on my feelings or whatever else.

Happy Wednesday, friends.

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9 Weeks, 4 Days // D+C

Today marked the end of my pregnancy with baby #2. After watching and waiting for the last three weeks, I simply couldn’t wait any longer and made the decision to have a D&C. It wasn’t the choice I really wanted to make, but my body showed zero signs of natural miscarriage and I was still experiencing horrible morning sickness, food aversions, etc. -- which was difficult both mentally and physically. I needed to heal. I needed to move on. Obviously the procedure isn’t the end of the process, but it was a major, major hurdle I needed to clear.

So, I made this decision last Wednesday. The soonest appointment I could get was today, Monday morning. I tossed and turned in bed all last night. I think maybe I slept a few half hour chunks at a time. I haven’t had any medical procedures done in, well, forever, so I was quite anxious about all it might entail. To make matters worse, Ada threw up at 3:00 AM and continued to do so every 20 minutes until we had to leave. Thank goodness for Stephen’s mom. She took over bowl duty once we left. But all that early morning cleanup and consoling made me beyond nauseous, and I almost thought I’d need to cancel the procedure because I was sure I was going to lose my handle on my own sickness any minute.

We showed up at 6:15.

After getting signed-in, I needed to change into a gown, hospital socks, a hair net and some mesh undies (fun). No one came in for a good half hour, which I mostly spent gagging, but then someone did record my vitals. Another short wait and the anesthesiologist came in. I know not everyone has the best bedside manner, but his -- especially in light of my situation -- was particularly jarring. Since I was feeling nauseous, he told me I couldn’t do the twilight sleep and, instead, had to do general anesthesia with a breathing tube, etc. I was taken a bit off guard, so I asked a few questions (is this higher risk? will it hurt? will i remember the tube? does the procedure take longer? basic stuff). I mean, it felt like a major change (not that I was arguing it -- I want to be safe), and he just quipped back:

“Well, you don’t have a choice, do you? So . . . it is what it is.”

Geez, I know. Thanks.

The nursing staff was awesome, though, and my doctor came in for a quick chat before it was go time. The nurse anesthetist was SUPER warm and kind, so she put my mind at ease. At some point, another nurse put the IV and it felt cool running through my veins. A weird sensation. Then they gave me some stuff to help the nausea. Then when it was time to head down the hall, they put something else in my line to make me loopy. I remember getting into the OR. I remember looking up at the big round lights and having people chat with me. But very soon after, I was just . . . out.

Before I knew it (and as my friends told me would happen), I woke in another room with three people attending to me. The first feeling I had was confusion followed immediately by tremendous relief. Since mine was a "missed miscarriage,” I have been already dealing with a lot of the emotions and grieving in the last three weeks. Today was a huge step because I was very uneasy about continuing to wait for my miscarriage to just happen. In theory, I wanted to wait and let my body do what it would do. However, we don’t have family in the area, so I worried what I’d do with Ada if things got bad. And I had absolutely no signs (bleeding, spotting, cramping) that anything was going to happen in the near future. I felt like a ticking time bomb.

Making the choice to get the D&C is, according to my doctor, highly personal. After our consultation last week, he agreed that my circumstances (especially watching the miscarriage happen in slow motion with weekly scans + my unrelenting morning sickness) definitely made me a good candidate for doing it this way. There are some risks. I think I’ll always feel a bit conflicted about my decision. At least now I will be able to continue healing without this big event looming over me.

In all, it’s a situation I never saw myself in.
It’s hard to make choices that way, you know?

I’m a bit bummed because my doctor expressed that he’d like us to wait three full cycles before trying again. There’s a lot of debate between doctors on best practices. I asked if any of this time was built in for emotional grieving. He said it’s more for the body to heal fully. As much as we’re devastated about this loss -- we feel at peace knowing that likely our baby would have been sick or suffered in some way. Sigh.

Still, I think what’s been harder is this whole process and its ever-growing length -- there are days when I feel like a second child might just not happen. Others when I genuinely feel like we’re the only people struggling (which is so far from the truth!). I don’t have anything against raising and only child, but I do feel somewhat sad only because I always envisioned myself having two kids . . . and adjusting that picture is hard, especially when it’s not really by choice. I’m trying to be one of those people who believe that we’re given the family we’re meant to have. But in all my angst right now, this honestly just sucks. I won’t jump to any conclusions. I also have to give myself a break because my hormones are insane and I just had anesthesia. I won’t elaborate too much on this point at the moment.

In the end, I look back on my first pregnancy and marvel at how lucky we were. I used to think if you just knew how to get pregnant (charting, knowing ovulation dates, having sex at the right time, eating well, etc.), that having babies was easy for most people. Our journey this time along couldn’t be any more different. So, I will follow my doctor's orders and wait. We’re going to go for some of the testing on my second cycle and see where that leaves us with regard to TTC. I am hoping after a few days of recovering from this procedure that I’ll get back more to my normal self in many ways. But more on that soon!

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With a Little Help From My Friends

I don’t write a ton about my real life friends on the blog because I don’t feel like it’s my place to drag them online with all my over-sharing. As a courtesy. I’ve also felt somewhat lacking in the friend department ever since we moved back in 2008. Not necessarily because I have zero friends, but -- instead -- it seems like all my people are continually moving and shaking away. I’m happy for them and their new adventures, but last year THREE of my best friends moved within a span of a couple months. Overwhelming. A few are here, most are there (at least an hour or two away), and then some of the best are really far away.

And making new friendships as an adult is extremely difficult for me (for many?). Plus, Ada always tells me I’m her best friend. Right back at you, baby.

As much as I tell you guys about the inner workings on my mind (and sometimes body -- yeah), you’d be surprised how shy I am unless I know you. Or maybe I seem standoffish? Standing in a corner a bit paralyzed at the thought of striking up conversations with strangers. But once I know you, I’m quite outgoing. It’s this weird dual-personality thing. I get along really well with most people and enjoy company . . . in small groups. But in larger situations or first meetings, the introvert takes over like whoa. It’s a conflicting way to be, but it’s all I know. In the end, I have this amazing group and feel quite fulfilled with the love and connections.

This miscarriage situation has been probably the toughest thing I’ve gone through personally. Ada’s surgery was hard (nearly impossible), but this is all me. My body and my mind and my journey. At first, I was absolutely floundering and feeling completely empty and alone and angry. Then one by one, I started getting messages and phone calls . . . my friend came to the rescue. (And don’t get me started on family -- they’ve been the absolute BEST. Then there’s all of YOU who’ve written and more. I wonder some days what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.)

Social sites like Facebook can suck, and I’ve considered quitting them many times. Think of the comparison trap, the general #lookatme craziness, and the frenemies (the worst!). But then my inbox started filling with these warm and compassionate messages, experiences, words of advice, offers of help, and more. These were from my friends . . . my childhood friends . . . and my college friends . . .  my new friends . . . and even people I didn’t know terribly well before all this stuff started happening. It’s been this incredibly moving experience that I wouldn’t have known if I chose to close out the world.

What I’ve taken away from everything is this:

More of us are struggling than we can even comprehend. Most of us have been through something that has changed us at the core. Which is sad, but also reassuring that the human experience can be anything in the spectrum of devastating to extraordinary. In the case of miscarriage and infertility, so many women and families have known this sadness. This devastation. So, if you’re going through something similar, I encourage you to reach out and talk about it. I didn’t know if I wanted to blog about it . . . but I’m so glad I did. I now have a new “club” of sorts. It’s not one I ever wanted to join, but people can be amazing if you just let them in.

My appointment today went well. We got more answers/closure and continue to wait, but not necessarily for much longer. I will share more soon but would first like to fill in my family. I appreciate your patience with the blog being sort of, well, meh at the moment. I haven’t felt much like sharing recipe roundups or homesteading ideas and would rather give myself a little mental space before returning in full.

Soon.

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7 Weeks, 4 Days

I don’t really know what to write. In a way, I knew this was coming. In another, I was trying so desperately to cling to hope despite what my brain was telling me. I spent the bulk of the past week since our last appointment scouring the internet for early pregnancies that sounded like mine. I found quite a few and about half ended well and half, well, didn’t. One factor remained the same: I’m sure of our conception date and -- at very least -- that seven days behind was just too large a gap to be OK.

I spent a lot of last week in bed thinking I could have some control over the outcome. I’ve been terribly sick with nausea in the mornings and at night, which continues to this very moment. Everyone tried assuring me that increasing  symptoms are a good sign, but I knew otherwise from everything I’ve read. My body is very pregnant . . . but a large part of my mind had already given up. I think I needed this distance because emotionally I get way too far ahead of myself. Ada, too, was once this tiny bean, a potential child with thoughts, feelings, and so much love.

When we got to the ultrasound this morning, we had to sit in the waiting room for around 20 minutes with all those gigantic pregnant bellies again. I was wringing my hands to the point of hurting myself. Trying breathing techniques to lower my heart rate. The minute we got in the exam room, my pulse slowed considerably. I had come to this weird peace with what we might see. Like I said, I had this intuition about the whole thing.

And once the test was started, my thoughts were confirmed.

The baby measures 6 weeks, 0 days -- on the dot -- another four days added to the gap from last week, when I should be 7 weeks and 4 days. Unlike last week, that faint flicker of a heartbeat was much harder to find. We did see something pulsing, and it measured -- again -- around 92/93 beats. Another sign that things just aren’t progressing, I knew from my research, at very least that should have been stronger and faster. The tech showed me a few other signs that the pregnancy isn’t thriving, which I won’t go into, but at this point all we can do is wait. For how long, we don’t know.

I didn’t really cry like I did at my last appointment . . . instead, I felt this strange sense of calm that I haven’t had in a while. I felt guilty for not sobbing, but I had created that distance for coping, I guess. At the same time, I have so many questions and fears. How long will this take? Why did this happen? Why did it take so long to get pregnant only to have it turn out this way? How long will it take for my body to heal? Will it hurt? How long will it take to get pregnant again? Will I ever carry a pregnancy to term again? Is something wrong with us? What do we tell Ada? How much longer will I feel all these symptoms?

Why is this happening to us?

The midwife was helpful, but she can’t tell us much more than we already know. The baby isn’t healthy. This pregnancy isn’t going to mystically turn around. That being said, it could take time. Weeks. And that’s if we’re lucky enough to have it happen on its own. There’s still a heart beat. We made an appointment for two weeks from now if something doesn’t happen in the meantime. I’m desperately hoping my body will naturally cope so I can heal both physically and emotionally.

I wish I had more closure. It’s like I do, but I don’t. I so much appreciate all your notes, comments, thoughts, prayers, and everything else. They’ve been an incredible comfort to me. At this point, I’m going to try to carry on as normal. I don’t have control over what happens next. I don’t have control over anything, which is what this whole situation is showing me more than anything else. I don’t know what our next steps will be, but all I can do right now is hug Ada with all my might and give thanks for her every single day.

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