A new and improved worldview

After writing a comment to one of Mel’s posts that seemed to drag on and on (the comment, not the post), I figured it would be more appropriate to air my thoughts on my own blog, rather than hijack someone else’s.

I’m talking about Roe v. Wade. It has been a recent hot topic of conversation here in the States since the 35th anniversary passed last week.

As recently as three months ago, I would have called myself “pro-life.” I never went so far as to picket, and I rarely talked about it, but I believed abortion was wrong so I identified with the pro-lifers.

Then, at the beginning of November 2007, M and I were faced with an impossible decision: Suffer through my remaining four months of pregnancy knowing that my son would never live, or choose to end his life through an induced labor. We chose to abort the pregnancy.

There it is: the word “abort.” Even now, the people closest to us don’t like it when I use that word. That sentence is always accompanied with a hasty, “But your child wouldn’t have lived anyway, right?” In saying that, they are turning what some consider a black and white issue into a shade of grey.

I agree with them: Abortion is all about shades of grey. Which is exactly why I now believe that it would be very difficult, nay, impossible, to legislate it without causing a significant amount of hurt.

In my Bible study last week, one of the more conservative guys wanted us to pray for the overturn of Roe v. Wade. I couldn’t stay silent any longer; I told them if they wanted to include that in their prayers, then I asked that they also pray for wisdom for our legislators. (The one good thing about going through a situation like ours is that people actually listen to you.) They sat there in stunned silence while I explained that what we did was, technically, abortion (they knew all about it, but I’m not sure they had put two and two together). The conservative guy’s wife, MT, hastened to say that what we did was OK because we didn’t technically “kill” our son; he died before birth. Well, I can tell you this: When we walked into the hospital on Nov. 6, he was alive. After I took medication to give birth, he died. I directly caused the death of my son.

What I reminded my Bible study group was that while they “excuse” our decision as being “perfectly understandable,” some groups don’t. Believe me—I’ve found their Web sites. Many conservative Catholics believe that infants with diagnoses not compatible with life—the most common of which are anencephaly and bilateral renal agenesis—should still be carried to term, the mother’s mental agony notwithstanding. And who’s to say a member of one of these conservative groups wouldn’t be in a decision-making position someday?

If I had a friend who was considering abortion because she feels a baby wouldn’t fit into her life, I would still try to talk her out of it. That part of me hasn’t changed. But I also believe that you can’t know what it’s like until you’ve been through it. I thought I was immune from having to make the choice of whether or not to abort a baby because I chose to remain a virgin until I was married. I was wrong.

I don’t regret our decision at all. It hurt, but it was the right choice to make at that time. And our loss has made me a more open, less judgmental person.

If anything good is to come out of Zach’s death, I hope I can help other people become more understanding, as well.

Our family's new addition

Thank you all for your information and reassurances. I have regained my calmness again, even adopting a que sera, sera attitude. If it’s twins, so be it. If it’s a singleton, so be it. If it’s a miscarriage…well, that would suck, but we’d get through it. We’ve already gotten through worse. I think I’m still in disbelief that we’re back at this pregnancy place again.

And now for a completely different topic—I’ve been holding out on you guys. Three and a half weeks ago, we rescued a dog. Colby is a 22-pound spaniel mix, five years old and the love of our lives. Seriously, we could not have found a more perfect dog. He’s a huge lover and insists on cuddling in our laps wherever we happen to be sitting. He has been a lifesaver for me—something to concentrate on besides dead babies, potential babies and gestating babies. And M, who wasn’t sure at first whether he wanted a dog, is completely in love with him. We’ve started taking him to dog obedience classes, which is a great distraction from all the other stuff going on in our lives.

In honor of Colby, I am going to post my first-ever photo on this blog. You will never see a picture of me, my belly (if I ever have one) or my baby (if I ever have one), but you will see my doggy.

Confirmation

I was going to post about how eerily calm I’ve been since I got the double lines. I was going to tell all of you how surprised I am that I seem to finally have realized that if something is going to go wrong, I can’t do anything about.

Then I got my beta results.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. First beta at (what I believe is) 13dpo: 155. Second beta at 15dpo: 471.

Multiples? On a natural cycle?

At this point, I would appreciate any of you who can point me to a helpful site that tells me all about betas. Because my first ultrasound is on Feb. 14, and at this point Valentine’s Day seems a long, long way away.

The funny thing is, a year ago I would have been absolutely thrilled about twins. Now, however, after having already experienced a second-trimester loss, all I can think about is, Twin pregnancies have so much more risk than singletons. If this is twins, then all my hopes of a normal, calm pregnancy go right out the window.

I don’t want to offend any of you who are already pregnant with twins. Hey, if I could actually make it through such a pregnancy, then I would be thrilled. All my dreams will have come true. But oh, I can’t help wondering if I’m just in for another heartbreak.

In which I lose half my readers

When I attended an infertility support group about a year ago, I met a woman who had suffered through many, many miscarriages—so many that she didn’t even want to give us a number for fear we wouldn’t believe her. She said it had gotten so bad that she was now afraid of becoming pregnant. While I felt incredibly bad for her, I couldn’t imagine feeling sick to my stomach at the sight of a positive pregnancy test. At least she had the joy of knowing she could become pregnant, I told myself.

Now I understand. Because when I gazed at those two lines staring at me this morning (yes, I caved and tested on 13dpo), my first thought was not “Finally!” as it was when I got a positive pee stick last July. Instead, it was, “Omigod, omigod, omigod, what have I done? My last period was only 7 weeks after I delivered a stillborn fetus at 20 weeks. They all say you’re supposed to wait three months because your body has to heal. But how could I pass up an opportunity when I actually ovulated on my own? I’m going to miscarry, I’m going to miscarry, oh, God, I’m going to miscarry, and it’ll be my own fault!”

Thus the reason for the title of this post. I know very well what it's like to feel that a friend or family member--or blogger--is "safe," only to find out that she’s newly pregnant. I know that some of you who are still waiting for your double lines will click on my blog today and, while being happy for me on some level, will find that it’s difficult to continue reading. That’s OK; I understand because I’ve been there.

There are others of you who will snort in indignation at this post. “Can’t this bitch even be grateful for the incredible gift she’s been given without immediately finding something wrong with it?” Let me clarify: I am thrilled beyond belief to be—to have seen two lines this morning. But I am also terrified beyond belief that I will grow to love this child, only to have him cruelly taken away from me. Somehow, I’m going to have to come to terms with these feelings. I just hope I’ll be given an opportunity to come to terms without having my fears validated.

Please, no congratulations—instead, congratulate me about four months from now if I find out all my baby’s body parts and organs are present and accounted for.

The Boobie Lament

Oh, breasts, breasts, breasts. You’re going to be the end of me.

Why do you toy with me so? Why give me false hope (and yes, I am going to continue to use the word “false” until proven otherwise)? I remember how much you ached during my last pregnancy, beginning at about 5 weeks and continuing until weeks after the pregnancy ended. It was a crescendo of agony, that continued to grow and grow until I couldn’t walk down the hallway without howling in pain.

But oh, what sweet pain. Because it reminded me that I was still pregnant.

And now, I find myself fondling you at my desk, surreptitiously sneaking a poke when I think no one else is looking. When I poke you, do you not ache? A small ache, and only on the outer regions of your bounty, but an ache nonetheless. I have even made trips to the bathroom for the sole purpose of poking you within an inch of your lives. I even took off my bra to gaze at you in the mirror. And oh, were you voluptuous! Yes, I know that you already grew a cup size during my last pregnancy, but I don’t remember you being quite this big and swollen a month ago.

Those changes, plus occasional cramps over the last few days (today is 10dpo), have put a spring in my step today. I actually believe I might see a second line when I test at the end of the week!

Oh, fie, fie, fie! You torture me so! You make a mockery of me by causing me to be like so many other infertile women and invent “symptoms.” But I never noticed "phantom symptoms" before...

My formula for happiness

Those of you who are married: When you were single, did you ever make a list of the qualities any man you married absolutely had to have? One late night, I sat in bed composing just such a list. My “non-negotiables” included a non-smoking Christian man who knew how to manage money. I was lucky; I got what I was looking for and much, much more.

My point is that I knew I could never marry someone who didn’t meet these criteria. It’s a simple formula: Husband = non-smoker, Christian and good with money.

Now, I find myself in a similar, non-compromising position. Happiness = pregnancy. The funny thing is, I now know from experience that pregnancy does not always = happiness. I remember days during my pregnancy in which I felt so blah I could practically scream. I felt that I was living vicariously through both a friend who was in the beginning stages of a promising relationship, and another friend who was about to undergo her first IUI. “Your lives are so much more interesting than mine,” I remember thinking. How foolish I was. If only my life could have remained boring for another four months or so.

Yet now, I look at my friends and family members who are pregnant and can't imagine they could have any legitimate reason for not being deliriously happy. They have what I want; shame on them for not fully appreciating it.

The area where we live is rather bleak during the winter, but fun and alive during the summer. Any other January I would be eagerly looking forward to June, when M and I would be able to take evening strolls around one of the many lakes in our county. Instead, I think, “How in the world can I enjoy the summer if I’m not pregnant by then?”

I want what I had. And depending on the day (or hour), I either view pregnancy within the next four months as a probability or an impossibility.

I know, I know—I shouldn’t be setting a time limit for myself. It’s incredibly unhealthy. But I feel like the world is passing me by. I was talking to a diabetes educator today (during a work thing) who told me that a PCOS woman in her 30s with her first pregnancy has a higher chance of gestational diabetes. “Don’t treat me like I intentionally delayed TTC,” I wanted to shout at her. “I was in my 20s when I first started trying! It’s not my fault!” (Before you get upset at this RN, understand that she wasn’t accusing me at all. I just didn’t like the facts she was throwing at me, and I’m a tad sensitive these days. She was actually a very nice woman.)

Now that I actually have a shot at being pregnant, I feel like the rest of my winter is defined by the results of that pee stick nine days from now. Positive pee stick = happiness. Negative pee stick = at least four more weeks of misery. (Hell, it’s like I’ve got my very own groundhog!)

I can’t remember if I felt this way before we conceived the first time. I know I certainly wasn’t isolating myself nearly as much, which, ironically, is a big part of my misery. I want my friends and family back. But the only way I feel comfortable with having them back is if I have that trump card in my back pocket—a new pregnancy.

The big O

Well, slap my ass and call me Sally, I think I may have ovulated! On CD17 or 18!

I have had some restless nights recently, which makes it difficult to temp (because, of course, you need to have had at least three hours of sleep to get an accurate temp). However, I have still had four days in a row of high temps! I’m thinking all four days can’t have been due to bad sleep. Plus, on CD18, when I wiped I noticed my “area” was rather slick (I know, I know—TMI), which made me think of my ever-elusive friend, EWCM. So I must grudgingly admit that my good friend Jo was right when she said pregnancy hormones can whip my PCOS ass into shape—at least temporarily. I’ll take what I can get.

And yes, we did have timed sex—on either the day of or the day before ovulation. So I think I’m finding myself in the good ol’ 2ww again. I’m trying my hardest not to care, to view this as a “bonus cycle” because I didn’t expect to be able to try again until February. But damn, it’s hard not caring! I find myself caught in that vicious cycle, again, of counting forward nine months and planning my life as if I could actually get pregnant and carry to term. You’d think I would have learned my lesson. Plus, my period started only seven weeks after we lost Zach, which makes me wonder if we started trying too soon. The only thing worse than not being pregnant is getting pregnant and then miscarrying because my uterus just wasn’t ready.

I know the ovulation thing may not seem like a big deal to most of you, but it's huge for me! This is the first time I've ovulated and had timed sex without estrogen-inhibiting medication. See, my PCOS doesn't just mean I have long cycles; it means I rarely ovulate at all, which can be rather, um, counterproductive to getting pregnant. Sucks, doesn't it?

So I wait, and try not to hope too much…