Loving the Life I Didn't Choose

For the last five years I've had a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks during early September. In 2011, it was the day I received my first and only positive pregnancy test and I felt so guilty for the caffeine as 1,000 what-ifs ran through my devastated mind. For the next four years I drank that latte in memory of what might have been. It was a way to pause and remember my first child who was shed from my body far too soon.

This year, I didn't do that. In fact, I barely recognized that the date had come and gone. I was playing on the beach with my son. Our vacation was glorious and deserves a whole post to itself (that I might get together by Christmas). But it was a poignant moment for me to realize that I was too busy loving the life before me to remember the life I wanted. 

I've always struggled with the idea of being thankful for hard things. Well, that's not true. It's a specific hard thing. It's death. To be thankful for death is just a hard concept for me to grasp, especially the death of a child, be they born or still in the womb. Throughout the years, I would hear people say, "I'm so thankful things worked out this way. Otherwise, I wouldn't have (fill in the blank)."  That has always been hard for me to process. To be thankful for the miscarriage or stillbirth of one child which allowed you to later have a different child. I've always clung to my theory of both. I've said I want both. I've refused to be thankful for that first miscarriage even though it eventually led me to my son. I rationalize that I would have wanted both. I would have wanted that first child (and each of the others) and I would also want my son. But if I'm honest with myself, it's very, very, very unlikely that I would have Garrison if I had given birth in May 2012 and everything had gone according to my plan. Sure, we always said we'd like to adopt. But the adoption plan was never for a blue-eyed infant from Florida four years later. 

How do you love the life you didn't chose? For a long time, that was really, really hard for me. There were years where I simply didn't like my life. Sure I was thankful that I was alive, but actually like my life? It was too easy too look around and say, "that is the life I want." I wanted the life I had planned. I couldn't see the possibility of anything good, let alone better. I've learned to love this life I didn't chose. And not in a "this is the best I can hope for," or Plan B kind of way, but in a "I couldn't have dreamed it better" kind of way.

But therein lies this tension. Garrison is mine and I am his because of "unfair" circumstances. Infertility ran over my life like a runaway train and I screamed about the unfairness through the whole journey. My son doesn't know this yet, but his circumstances were unfair too. It's weird to mourn the loss and pain while simultaneously being incredibly grateful that we're all together because of it. It's an odd thing to wish I could remove the pain and hurt that these years have caused while recognizing that without this pain and hurt, the journey would not have led us together. It's weird to think that I would have missed him if I'd gotten what I wanted all those years ago. But admitting I prefer this life, feels like saying I'm glad my first children died. You see? There's this tension. 

I have no neat bow to tie all of this up. No words of wisdom. No answer to the tension. All I can leave us with is this quote from a really fantastic book that I've been reading and rereading, trying to soak in as much as possible from a fellow infertility survivor. Melanie Dale, author of It's Not Fair writes this, "after years of telling God it's not fair, I can now say that I'm grateful for my struggle. I would never tell someone else to be grateful for theirs. We can't tell people in pain to be grateful. That would be the highest cruelty. But over time, after having raw conversations with God and acknowledging the life unfolding around me, I see the beauty of his creation. It's not fair. It's different than fair." So while I learn to live with this tension of desperately loving this life I didn't chose, while mourning the life I thought I wanted, all I can say is I'm grateful. Oh so very grateful for a God who holds this tension with me and leads my family on this journey with love and compassion, strength and security. I'm thankful for the journey and thankful for the one who journeys with me.

Twenty-Nine

Today is my birthday, more specifically my 29th birthday. Now before I even start I know many of you are going to think, "who cares?" or "I'll trade ya'" or "I wish I was twenty-nine again" and I get that. It's not that twenty-nine feels particularly old, in fact twnety-nine suddenly feels very young, you know? I think for every year I age "old" moves two years farther out from my original idea of "old". I'm not old... that's not the problem. The problem is what my twenty-ninth birthday represents.

I've mentioned this before, but somehow as a child, I got the idea into my head that I wanted to be just like my mom and stop having babies at twenty-nine. Well (insert four letter word). In fact, mom didn't just stop at twenty-nine, more specifically she had me five days after her 29th birthday. For some unknown reason, this arbitrary and unrealistic goal followed me from my childhood and into my adult life. I've never been able to shake the idea that I should be done with baby-making before thirty. I remember when Sam and I were dating I tried to express the urgency of the situation... we couldn't expect to have five biological babies before twenty-nine if he kept dragging his feet on the dang engagement.

We got engaged at twenty-three. I knew then somewhere in my head that this was an impossible task. I could not get married and have five children before my thirtieth birthday. I should have kicked this silly, idealistic plan to the curb then, but I didn't. When infertility struck like a sledgehammer to the gut, I should have recognized that there was absolutely zero chance this would happen, unless my idea of a family changed from five to one. And honestly, I guess that's initially what changed. Instead of moving twenty-nine down the road a few years to thirty-five or remove this antiquated finish like altogether, I simply lowered my expectations. Instead of five children, I was hoping for three children. Gracious, I was naive. For any infertile person to have three children in four years would be absolutely wild.

With time, I slowly began to recognize that the twenty-nine deadline was not going to happen. Once again, I had the opportunity to drop the nonsense and move on, simply feeling fulfilled if I ever had a baby, and yet once again, I clung to the birthday as the date I needed to at least start my family. If I could have one baby before my 29th birthday, I would feel satisfied I told myself. From there, I could go on adding to my family without deadlines and checkpoints. Thus the October Baby became so important to me. I mourned that this was simply not meant to be after IVF failed in January. Other than a premature birth (which I would obviously never hope for) there was simply no way I would meet this whimsical idea. And so, I tucked the idea away and moved on, silently and secretly dreading this birthday like the plague.

I'm not going to lie. This birthday hurts. All birthdays take on a special type of pain in the midst of infertility, but this one has extra sting. My mommy friends are quickly moving onto their second and third and (bless them) fourth children. My non mommy friends are most often several years younger than me. I'm stuck in between, not exactly a good fit in any world. As a child, like all good Generation Xers and Millenials I was told I could do anything if I simply worked hard, put my mind to it, and never gave up. Well friends, I did all of the above, and yet here I sit. Now I fully recognize in my cognitive, rational mind that the "you can be anything you want to be" is a lie, but on some level I still hear whispers that I failed.

I have to admit though, despite wanting to kick myself for every giving myself this ridiculous deadline, in some ways, I'm really thankful. I'm so glad I was in a desperate hurry to start having babies so I could fit them all in by twenty-nine. I'm so thankful that my biological clock was shrieking at twenty-four. I'm so thankful that we started trying at twenty-five, just thirteen months after getting married. I'm so thankful I felt burdened to be a young mom, even though I feel like a failure today. I'm thankful because this idea, the deadline, this "hurry-up" feeling has given me the blessing of time. Time we wouldn't otherwise have had if I'd felt I had all the time in the world. Time we wouldn't have had if I'd given myself a more normal deadline of 35 or 40. Now the fact that we're almost four years into this infertility battle doesn't mean time is up, or the door is closed. So while it sucks to feel like I failed, I'm still really thankful to have had such a silly idea in my head for so long.

Twenty-nine is such an odd birthday to have a mini midlife crisis over. Again, the freakout has nothing to do with the idea of being old. I don't look at my friends in their thirties and think of them as old; rather I look at my friends in their mid twenties and think of them as fresh-faced young'uns. This day is not about being old, or one step closer to thirty,  it's about failing. In some ways, I guess it's a blessing. This day is finally here, and now I can move forward, leaving the idea behind, embracing the path before me, and forgetting this self-imposed line in the sand. The truth of the matter is, be it twenty-nine or thirty-nine, we will be beyond thrilled to enter parenthood at all. This birthday will pass, and we will move on just as excitedly, just as diligently, just as eagerly on building our families, but today, I'm really missing that October Baby and that First Baby that would have made me a mom so many years ago.

Some Days are Hard

Some days are just hard. Today is one of those days. Today would have been the due date from our first IVF transfer. I already knew the date before we even got to the beta. I was in no way confident that our IVF cycle would work, we had had too many things go differently than planned during that cycle, but I still just needed to know, "if this works, when would we be due?" The date was engraved in my mind for the two week wait. And then for one, one billionth of a second I was pregnant. Again. Me. The girl who never gets pregnant. Somehow, despite all odds, it happened. A pitiful, little six yes, but it was still there. The date mattered. We knew how things would go before the phone call even ended. This would not be our take home baby. October 3, 2014 would not be our day. We wouldn't write it on the calendar, with hearts and stars and hope. We'd just tuck it away as a day to remember and reflect. A day to reminisce and mourn.

By the time I returned for another beta on that Monday in January it was over. It was most certainly over before it even began, but it was real. For one brief moment in time, two of our precious babies were placed inside of me. I'm pretty confident that only one implanted.... the numbers were just so low. But for a small window of time, we were connected, that baby and me. I was providing life and he/she was fighting for it. I'm not sure who failed whom... is my body to blame? Or did my sweet baby never have chance? Either way, our time together was important. That little bundle of a few hundred cells was half me and half my husband and all God-breathed.

Many will wonder where my hope for tomorrow is. Isn't adoption exciting? Aren't we hopeful that our baby is out there? Of course. But the hope for tomorrow doesn't negate the pain of today. We are thrilled about our adoption. We are nervous and excited and overwhelmed to start our home study. We are eager to get started so we can get finished, because the Lord knows this is not a fun process. But our joy and our anticipation for what tomorrow may bring doesn't change the fact that today hurts. Today was the day that life was supposed to enter the world, wailing and crying and furious over the traumatic entry. We had placed months upon months worth of money and hope and prayers into today. Today was the day that IVF was supposed to change our story.

Tears have been stinging my eyes since they opened this morning. I wanted those babies... both of those babies. They were fiercely and dearly loved. They were meant to be my miracle, my October babies, my last chance to sneak a baby in before my 29th birthday. They were 10,000 hopes and dreams and prayers all centered within those tiny bundles of life. But they are gone and we are here, and we have no answers as to why. So many questions still unanswered. Some days are just hard. Today is one of those days.

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I also wanted to give a brief update on the adoption. We met with our adoption consultant on Wednesday. Everything went really well. She said she thinks we'll do great, but I'm guessing she says that to everyone. We've got two tasks we're working on right now, and they both feel daunting. The first is our profile book. This is a physical book that will be mailed across the country to various agencies or attorneys so that they can present us to a birth mom. It's supposed to tell the birth mom about us and why we want to adopt... essentially a "pick us" type book. No pressure or anything. The second task is the home study. I completed the application for the home study last night.... not the home study, just the application. I didn't know the answers to half of the questions, so I'm feeling really positive about this process. But on we press and we cling to hope. We've been brought to today for a reason.

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And one last thing. Caroline over at In Due Time is about the sweetest thing ever... you all know that. She has a HUGE heart and has graciously offered to host an online Stella Dot party as a fundraiser for our adoption. How cool is that?!?! I'm going to attempt to invite everyone this weekend, but in the mean time, consider yourself invited. The party is open until October 31st, so if you're interested click this link. Only eleven weekends until Christmas!

THAT Person

I've often wondered why infertility is a part of my life. When you've tried for three plus years to get pregnant, you have a lot of time to muse. At various times I've wondered about EVERY possibility: population control, a test of faith, a lesson in patience, to prevent some future catastrophe... the brain can go WILD with the options and all that time to wonder. Lately, I've wondered if I'm slated to be that friend... you know the one you go to when X happens. For me, the X, is pregnancy loss or infertility diagnosis.

Hannah's story in the Bible has often been a place of refuge for me in the past few years. I feel like I can really understand her story in ways that I can't really grasp Ruth's or Mary's, you know? First of all, she was so distraught over her situation she wept... I definitely get that. There has been much weeping in the last few years. Secondly, people thought she was crazy (like drunk crazy) and didn't understand her sorrow. I've certainly had conversations and questions over the years which have further proven to me that until you've walked this road, you'll never understand. I get what it feels like to be misunderstood. I get what it feels like when people point out all the other blessings in your life and tell you to be happy (while holding their third child). I understand Hannh's sorrow and her pain. I haven't felt her joy yet, but I imagine my prayer of thanksgiving would be similar.

There's one part of Hannah's story that always gets me... "the Lord had closed her womb." I've often wondered if that's simply Old Testament code for infertile or if it's more literal. Did the Lord literally, intentionally, and specifically close Hannah's womb? Was she a lovely, happy, fertile woman, able to pop out 6-10 babies in her lifetime except for the small detail that the Lord said "no". You can see why this would bug me, I'm sure. I've often wondered why in the world the Lord would prevent Hannah from having a child for so long. Obviously there was a plan, but the details and rationale aren't really spelled out in the text. I find myself pretty peeved about the situation on Hannah's behalf. Now sure, the argument could be made that Samuel had to come along at that exact moment for the plan to come to fruition, but arguments like that just rub me the wrong way sometimes. God is God, and He's all powerful... it could have been both. Hannah could have been fertile, happy, AND have had Samuel at that exact moment in time. 

So why give Hannah a small, but powerful role in the story? Why give a minor character, a woman no less, a voice in the Old Testament? I like to think that the Lord knew that thousands of years later, other women with crappy wombs and broken eggs would take comfort in her story. I wonder if Hannah, even within her lifetime, became that go to person. When women from neighboring areas struggled to conceive, did they turn to Hannah for hope, for empathy, for a friend?

I certainly don't think this is the only reason for my infertility or my miscarraiges, and I'm not equating myself with Hannah, but I'm starting to wonder if infertility is a part of my life so that I can be that person for others. You see, when miscarriages occur, people think of me. It doesn't matter if we're related, best friends, old friends, or haven't spoken in 10 years, people reach out looking for advice, for hope, for a shoulder to cry on, for someone who understands. When people get the dreaded "infertile" diagnosis, they come to me. They want help, they want the secret to not murdering their peppy, optimistic husbands, they want advice on dealing with the annoying questions. I'm that person when this type of thing happens.

In a lot of ways, it's an honor. An honor that people would turn to me, an honor that they think of me, and honor that they trust me. It's also a burden, one that I gladly bear, but a burden none the less. As you might imagine, the circles that I'm a member of deal with pregnancy loss more than "normal". But I often feel like a bad luck charm, like women around me are destined to lose their children. On any given day, someone is blogging about the loss of a pregnancy. That's tough. Some days it feels like we're all destined to stay here, in this pit forever. Some days it feels like all of our babies will die. Add in the real life friends who turn to me in these moments and some days, it's overwhelming... some days I feel like I eat, breathe, and sleep pregnancy loss. It's my whole world. Some days, my only thought upon waking up is that I hope no one's baby dies today... literally. Last week I had four different friends in the process of losing a pregnancy. Between real life and the blog world, some days it feels like a miracle if I make it through a week without terrible news. Some days I'm just walking in a perpetual state of sadness, of mourning, of sorrow so far down deep in my soul for the loss that surrounds me.

Last week started off with the news from Suzanne that her FET transfer had failed. I can't explain the sadness I felt with this one. I was prepared for the news. Suzanne had faithfully updated me throughout her two week wait. I knew the chances were slim as she was testing daily, but sometimes, it's the friend's job to hold on to hope because you can't hope for yourself any longer. I've been there. I get that, so I was holding onto hope. My heart broke when she confirmed the negative beta. Anger and frustration at the Lord rose up while tears fell down my face as I stood in my kitchen questioning The Plan and His ways. The week before had been filled with similarly terrible news. Twenty five year-old women shouldn't lose their first pregnancy. I know because it happened to me. It feels wrong every time it happens, and this one was particularly hard. When my precious friend shared her news with me, the memories came rushing back... the joy at that (deceitful) little stick of good news, the confusion over the beta numbers, the fear, the sadness, the mourning. 

Sometimes the sadness is deep. There's my own sadness, which in and of itself is enough to swallow me up some days. And then there's the burden of mutual sorrow, of bearing up alongside of a friend, or carrying a little piece of their pain... the burden of abiding with that person through the valley. When your world is filled with infertility and pregnancy loss, it can feel like you simply live in the valley awaiting the next person to need you. But maybe this is the reason, or at least a part of it. Maybe I'm where I am, maybe I've experienced what I have so that I can have empathy rather than sympathy. Maybe infertility and pregnancy loss are a part of my story so that I can say, "I've been there".

Unfortunately, I'm not great at offering support, particularly for first time pregnancy loss. Not because I don't care, but because it's hard to put myself in her shoes... my own shoes have traveled a lot farther and it's nearly impossible to unwalk those miles. My first loss was almost three years ago... time and infertility have changed me. And while the emotions are still there, it's hard for me to put myself back there in Augusta, Ga at the age of 25 when that precious digital test read "pregnant" and I believed everything was right with the world. It's hard to remember a time when I didn't know what I know now. It's hard to remember that I was hysterical over the loss. It's hard to remember that my falling hCG numbers still didn't indicate a miscarriage to me. I was waiting on a miracle. It's hard to remember that thoughts like "just stitch my cervix closed so it can't come out" circled through my head even while the blood spilled out. It's hard to remove the knowledge that I now have, the experience that I now have, the protective shell that I've developed since then. The world I live in is FULL of pregnancy loss. Filled to the absolute brim and spilling over. It's hard to remember a time when I felt like the only person in the world who had suffered like this. I'm sure my friends occasionally need less head knowledge and more heart. Less statistics and more stories. I'm sure they often just want someone to cry with them. I could do that; I really could. But here's the thing, if I start, I may never stop. Because the tears I cry aren't just for her baby, but for my babies, and for all of my friends' babies... and that's a lot of tears. 

But like I said, maybe this is my role, maybe this is my purpose. If so, I'm thankful to at least have a purpose. If I could wave a magic wand and end pregnancy loss all together, believe me I would. If I could end all of that pain for you and for me, I would do it in a heartbeat. But since I can't, since my magic wand is broken, all I can say is that I'm here. If you've never lost a pregnancy, I pray your day never comes. I pray you're one of the lucky ones, but if it does, I'll be here. If the horrendous diagnosis of infertility is ever whispered your direction, I'm here. I've been through both. It's an honor and a privilege to stand alongside of you in your darkest moment. This is part of the reason I'm thankful that I'm public with my story, so that other women never think they are alone in their pain. I think many of my infertility and repeat pregnancy loss sisters would agree: the pain is unfathomable, the fear is overwhelming, the sadness is all encompassing, but a friend, someone to understand and say "I've been there" can make all the difference. So if it ever happens, don't suffer alone. Find that person in your life.

The Ashes

Today, God willing, we will sign our names 800 times, hand over a big ol' chunk of change and close on our first home. It's pretty exciting! I am beyond thrilled to have a place to call our own. We've worked really hard to get to this day.

But today is important for another reason too. I'll admit that I didn't automatically remember the date. It's not engraved on my mind any longer. But when our realtor mentioned the closing date of May 8th, I just had a funny feeling... I knew the date was important. It took me a day to place it, and even then I had to double check. But my funny feeling was accurate: today is important because it's my due date. My first due date. 

Today should have been that precious child's birthday. My baby would have turned two. Instead, my husband and I will move into our first home without a crib or a stroller. We won't unpack a set of jumbo Legos or a baby doll. It's just us (and Sterling and Everest). I wondered if this date might sting less this year for two reasons: 1- time, and 2-more losses. I guess to the first, the answer is yes, in a way, time does heal all wounds. I certainly hurt less today than I did last year and even less than I did two years ago. To the second, surprisingly no. The loss of four embryos and one (barely) confirmed pregnancy since then doesn't diminish this day. I'm sure part of that has to do with the pain simply compounding rather than dividing, but I think it's also because she was my first. She will always be my first baby. Maybe not my first born, but always my first baby. 

I also think that today stings a little more than a "standard due date" (whatever that might be) because this also marks the end of a chapter for our family. The loss of that baby marked the beginning of the infertility saga of our lives. With the loss of that first child, my dreams for our family vanished. With the death of my first baby, I ushered in the hardest season of my life. That miscarriage has divided my life into two parts: pre-infertility, and infertility. No, I didn't know that I was infertile the day I lost my child, but looking back that's when this mess all began. Like any woman suffering an unexpected miscarriage I feared that it would happen again; I worried that I wouldn't get pregnant again. When that baby died, so did any naïveté I had held onto. This day now also symbolizes what might have been. It feels like the fork in the road. Had I delivered a beautiful baby girl on this day in 2012, my life would look so different. We'd probably be trying for our second, because Lord knows I'd need another before 29. Everything would be different. Instead my life took a very different path. It was a sharp fork, one that disrupted everything and that I did not take by choice. Instead, on May 8th 2012, I completed paperwork for my infertility clinic. I had just met with my first Reproductive Endocrinologist the day before and I was preparing for my first procedure, the HSG, the next day. It was a very different day then, and it's a very different day now. 

I have no answers as to why my life took such a sharp turn. It makes no sense to me. I could write about beauty for ashes, but really, I'd prefer that child to this home. I'd rather be celebrating her birthday this weekend than packing up our rental. I'm thankful for today and all that it symbolizes, but that doesn't mean it's not all ashes compared with what could have been. 

It's Over

It's officially over. BETA came back at 1 today. I was once again pregnant for the briefest moment... just a blip on the radar really.

From here I simply stop all medications and wait for a new cycle. We're not moving forward with a frozen embryo transfer this next cycle, so I guess it's back to life as normal. I went ahead and let them schedule a follow up consult with Dr. Duffy in a few weeks. The problem is I don't really have too many questions about future FETs; I do however have a lot of "what the hell?" type questions regarding IVF... unfortunately those don't matter. 

I'm obviously sad. I know this won't really make much sense, but I don't think I'm any more sad than if it had initially been negative... either way we lost two embryos. It just took us a little while to make it official. I also feel guilty because, well, I'm not quite as sad as I was after the first miscarriage. I'm definitely still sad, just not like a puddle of goo on the floor sad. I don't think it will wreck my life for three months like the first one. Give me a week and I think the random outbursts of tears will be over. The only way I can explain it is this: with IVF, there are only two options. The embryo becomes your bring home baby, or it dies. I guess I had resigned myself to that. I'm definitely sad, but I guess I just recognized the distinct possibility, the likelihood even, that we would lose some in this process. That's not how I felt about the first... a miscarriage back then kind of came out of left field and shocked me. I guess I was better prepared this time. Maybe preparation take some of the sadness away, at least at this early stage. 

And I suppose I'm sad for another reason too. The loss of the two embryos is certainly significant, but it also feels like the loss of our best chance. I don't know if the doctors would say any of ours had a "good" chance, but those two were the best shot we had. I can't help but think, if those two failed, how can the others stand a chance? I know it's a defeatist mentality, and hopefully I'll shake it before too long, but right now, I just can't get excited about a frozen embryo transfer. I know FETs often have better results because the body is less stimulated and less stressed, but that doesn't change the quality of what we have left. And honestly, I don't even know what that is. I know we have six frozen in groups of two, and that they were all frozen on day 3 (because they didn't think they'd survive to day 5), but I don't know how many cells each had when they froze it or what the grades are... I guess I need to call about that.

Tonight is one of those nights I really wish I enjoyed alcohol a little more... I nice glass of red wine seems in order, but I guess I'll make do with my drug of choice (Diet Coke). A long bubble bath seems like it's due as well as I haven't had a good soak since the night before the retrieval. And I might even treat myself to a Starbucks in the morning... yeah, that sounds about right.

Thank you all so much for your encouragement and your prayers. It was a long weekend, but now we can officially move on. We're simply trusting that our story is not over... onto the next chapter.

"It's positive, but..."

I'm pretty sure I'm good if I NEVER hear those words again. I think I officially have PTSD surrounding that simple phrase... my heart stops, my stomach twists, my eyes tear. Essentially, I received a positive BETA today... positive as in 6. The nurse followed up her "It's positive, but" with "it's really low and it's unlikely that it's viable." Yea, I know. I've heard those words before. Twenty-eight months ago a nurse called to tell me "It's positive, but you're likely miscarrying." Yea, I remember exactly how that feels.

My infertile sisters all see the writing on the wall so to speak, but there are a lot of other people who were waiting for news today, so let me explain. The test assigns a number based on how much hCG is in your blood. Anything over 5 is considered pregnant, so yes, "technically" I'm pregnant. However, I'm essentially at the "missed period" stage meaning I should be able to take a home pregnancy test. HPTs vary in their sensitivity, but a First Response Early Result home pregnancy test (the gold standard) has a sensitivity level of 25... I would not get a positive. Other tests like the Error Proof Test or ClearBlue Easy Digital have a sensitivity level of 40 and 50 respectively... definitely not getting a positive. The "positive" result most likely means that one or both of the embryos attempted to implant, hCG was created and began to circulate, but soon after the embryo deteriorated and so the hCG level is now falling.

Basically, I'm miscarrying, it's just extremely early. The doctor won't even refer to it as a miscarriage; he'll call it a chemical pregnancy... but we won't use that hateful term around here. It makes what's happening sound like a figment of my imagination or a pregnancy in numbers only. Well, it wasn't in numbers only, the numbers wouldn't be there if it didn't happen. The strange thing is, I'm pretty sure I'd feel the exact same way if it the numbers had come back as a 3 or a 0. To me, my babies were alive, and now they're not. Sure they weren't breathing or looking anything like a baby, just a clump of less than perfect cells, but they were growing. I would have mourned the loss of our two embryos just as intensely if the BETA had been negative. The only additional bitter part about this is that it really hurts to come so close... to know they tried to implant, to know they survived at least a few days beyond the transfer. Sure, a positive BETA would have still meant we were ages away from a bring home baby, but we were closer than we've been in the last twenty-eight months.

I really can't process what this means going forward yet. Does this mean my eggs suck more than we knew? Are all of our embryos destined to die from early chromosomal issues? Is there more at play here like hostile uterine environment or killer cells? These are questions for another day. Right now, I'm just sad. In my heart, it feels like two of my babies have died, and well that just hurts... a lot.

I do of course have to stay on the medications and retest on Monday... it's standard procedure anytime there is a positive BETA. Many of you will want to know if there is any hope. I'll say this, it's incredibly unlikely. There are a wide range of potential results from a BETA at 4 weeks... anything from a 5 to 426. But keep in mind, those levels don't all become take home babies, meaning those aren't the numbers from only successful pregnancies, those are numbers from all pregnancies, ones that end in a day, a week, a month, the first trimester... they are all included. The American Pregnancy Association suggests that there are a few possible reasons for low hCG: a miscalculation of pregnancy date (not possible for me; we know exactly how far along I should be), an ectopic pregnancy (very unlikely with IVF), a blighted ovum or miscarriage. So yes, technically, I'm pregnant, and yes, things could turn around, but in this situation, knowing what we do and with our history, it's unlikely. The test Monday will most likely confirm a hCG level below 5 and I'll come off of all medications. However, I will say that I believe in a God of miracles, so I'm not discounting that He could show up in a mighty, mighty way... we're abundantly ready if He chooses to do so.

Until then, we wait. Thank you all for your well wishes and prayers today. Test day is incredibly stressful and I can't tell you how much your texts and messages warmed my heart during the wait. It feels wonderful to know that so many people are hopeful for us. Your encouragement means the world to us.

"Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength"- Isaiah 40:31

Lord, give me strength.

Courageous

I remember way back when I was just embarking on my first IUI thinking how much courage IVF must take. I was having mild panic attacks over the medications required for IUIs; I couldn't fathom doing IVF. In fact, I remember finding Amanda's blog right around the time she was embarking on IVF. I remember reading about the injections and thinking to myself that she was so incredibly brave. I also remember begging God to bring me a child before that point... my rationale was that He should know and understand that I am certainly not courageous, more like scared of my own shadow.

I've lived a bit since then though, and I have come to see things a little differently. I thought IVF was the most courageous decision because of the pain from the needles and medication, because of the risks for OHSS, etc. There's no doubt about it... that takes courage. I know because I'm staring down the barrel looking at IVF with big, wide eyes, so to speak. But the ultimate courage, the real bravery, I've come to believe is doing anything about my circumstance.

You see, it would be easiest to do nothing, to continue this life that we've been living for the last year, and simply let it be, to say this is the life we have and agree to be content. Sure, there's a very high chance I'd regret it later, but I still believe doing nothing is the easiest choice. We have a good life. It is by no means perfect, and I'm not fully satisfied, but most days I would score a good, solid 6-7. Some days totally blow, but even then I recognize that my "lowest" is really like a 4-5... there is a whole lot lower to go. And it is so scary to recognize that I could be signing myself up for my absolute darkest day. It would be easiest to avoid that kind of pain.

I once thought IVF, the procedure, the needles, the actual process was the bravest choice an infertile woman could make. Now I'm not so sure. IVF is certainly scary, but what's absolutely terrifying is the risk of pain, of heart wrenching, soul shredding, life changing pain. And that doesn't necessarily come from IVF, it comes from reaching, from stretching, from hoping for more.

When I think about the bravest women I know, I think of Aubrey. I can go ahead and admit without a shred of doubt that I would have given up on IVF long ago if my story looked like Aubrey's. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe she just completed her sixth embryo transfer out in Colorado. Aubrey is the first one to tell you that the pain from a failed transfer is debilitating, and yet, she has  recognized the potential for pain, faced her fears, and chosen to move forward again, and again, and again. Crazy, crazy brave.

And like I said, it's not always IVF that requires bravery; adoption is incredibly daunting and the potential for heartache is huge! Every time I talked to Erika after she and Matt were chosen, I thought to myself, "she is so brave". There were no needles involved, no medications, but the risk for pain, for heartache, for absolute despair was definitely there. It took incredible amounts of courage to pursue adoption.

When I think about Holly and the depths of her sorrow after losing her perfectly healthy son, Jude, due to an infection that she could do nothing to prevent, I think I know what the absolute darkest days must look like. Holly is there; she is deep in the valley of the shadow of death. My lowest days don't seem so low right now. Another failed cycle doesn't seem that bad. It is definitely easiest to avoid that type of pain at all costs.

IVF looms in front of me like Mount Everest. It is both growing closer and more insurmountable at the same time. It is almost my turn. My turn to be courageous, to take a mighty risk, to see the chance for incredible, life altering pain, and choose to push through anyway. I could stay here, right where I am, recognizing that doing nothing has the greatest potential for long term regret, but the least potential for immediate pain, OR I can move forward. I can risk the pain of a botched IVF, of a failed transfer, of a (God, please no) miscarriage or failed pregnancy. The needles are definitely scary, but the real fear I still have to overcome is the potential for pain, the kind of pain that changes you, that etches your heart, and scars your mind. I am not courageous, but I'll get there.
 

My Anchor Holds

I am pretty much over the sadness, guys. I am OVER broken hearts and crushed dreams. I am over death, decay, destruction...

I know most of you heard the news about Erika, Matt, and Ellison. I don't have a lot of news for you guys other than Erika is obviously devastated. I'm sure Erika will update soon, but for now, please join me in praying for her and Matt. Erika has waited a very long time to be a mom. She tried incredibly hard to stay realistic about the adoption, but to get to the hospital, to have the lawyers come, for the papers to be signed, to be a few hours away from discharge... and then to have it all ripped out from under her so unexpectedly. My heart is broken; I can't imagine how Erika and Matt feel.

That seems to be the general theme lately: my heart is broken. I know that it's not really true... a few of us are getting good news... maybe I'm just bad at focusing on the good, but wow, the terrible news seems to be overwhelming these days. Sometimes it seems like this little corner of the world receives well more than its fair share of sadness... loss on the heels of infertility is just too much some days.

Holly shared a beautiful post on prayer and how she's struggling, learning, trusting, trying something new. I obviously haven't experienced what Holly has been through, but I felt myself nodding along as I read it. "Yes, exactly," I thought multiple times. The analogy she uses is a fish on land, gasping for breath, waiting for the Lord to throw her back in the water, waiting for Him to save her. I can't tell you how many times I've felt like that in the last two and a half years. My prayers have been bold, they've been meek, they've been pathetic, they've been angry, they've been urgent... I feel like lately there are no words to fully express what I need, what I desire, what I'm asking for. It just comes out in a strangled "DO SOMETHING!" as I recognize my helplessness to do anything for my friends.

I know many of you would agree that infertility, at one time or another, has tested your faith with fire. My ongoing prayer throughout all of this has been that my faith would withstand. I can fully understand how infertility could destroy someone's faith. There are so many urgent prayers that get lifted up: "let it be positive," "let it double,", "save my baby"... and yet, time and time again, we see only one pink line, our betas drop, and our babies die. It's easy to wonder, "Where is God in all of that?"

I'm reminded of the post Erika wrote several months ago... I think it's one of my favorites. She discusses an Old Testament story from the book of Joel in which swarms of locusts destroy all of the crops. Why does the Lord even allow the locusts? I have no clue. They seem to be a purposeless waste. An unredeemable pest. Sure, I guess birds enjoy a feast, but is that worth it? Doesn't seem like it. In the midst of the swarm, I am fully sure that I would not be thinking of the amazing, beautiful, life-changing ways that the Lord would use the locusts for good. But Erika writes this:

But what I do feel confident in is this: the character of God. That His character and his heart and his intentions never change. That since the beginning of the world, He has been a God passionately in love with his people, a Creator that is for us. And while we live in the world that He created, we live in a world that is fallen and full of our own free will that doesn't always make the best choices, and it's definitely not always a pretty place. And terrible things happen-- illness, hurts, broken dreams, abandonment, infertility, betrayal. And we wander through years of wondering what happened, why our perfectly-laid plans have been eaten by the swarms of locusts, and we're scared to plant new hopes lest they fall victim to the locusts again.

But I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten.

It's a really beautiful promise. The idea that these years spent wanting are not a waste. The idea that the heartache upon heartache is for a purpose. The idea that the Lord is at work in redeeming what has been stolen. It's beautiful, but it's really hard to cling to promises in the midst of the swarm, in the midst of the heartache, in the midst of the death. How can my faith remain steadfast in the trials and pain?

I'm reminded of a new song, actually a remake of an old hymn. Hillsong's Cornerstone is hauntingly beautiful and the words are filled with meaning. Take these lines for example:

When Darkness seems to hide His face
I rest on His unchanging grace
In every high and stormy gale
My anchor holds within the veil

There have been an abundance of high and stormy gales lately. The waves have been crashing, the boats are sinking, the winds are ripping, and night is falling... but check out that last line: My anchor holds within the veil. The veil once hid the presence of God within the Tabernacle. It was the way God chose to dwell among His people... "within the veil" is another way of saying within God's presence. My faith is anchored within the very presence of God, and He is strong enough to make sure that my anchor will always hold.

Faith doesn't give me any additional answers. I have no idea why Holly's baby girl, Brinly, died. Why He didn't heal Caroline's precious son, Jackson Dean. I have no answers as to why Erika was given the opportunity to adopt Ellison if it was going to fall through. The lack of answers is frustrating, but I'm trusting that the Lord is at work. I may not know exactly what to pray for, but I'm just lifting up my friends asking for the Lord to protect their hearts, to bless their families, and to anchor their faith within the veil.

Fearful Heart

I swear you guys, I was all prepared to write a happy, optimistic post about blogger love, but I just can't. Not after this. I've sobbed for the last half hour. I'm sure my coworkers think my dog died. My makeup is gone... no signs that I even tried to get ready this morning. But ughhh, my heart is just so broken! I can't imagine living through what Holly and her husband experienced last night. Just reading about it tears my heart to shreds and scares me half to death.

Holly, even in her darkest hour, is concerned for her pregnant friends. She doesn't want them to be afraid. She keeps explaining just how rare the condition is, how unlikely it would be for any of her friends to experience the same condition. I'm not even pregnant and I'm scared. I think I've seen too much. I know too much. I've heard too many heartbreaking stories to believe that two pink lines means a baby. Hell, I'm not sure I believe the second trimester or even a positive anatomy scan means a bring home baby. Holly had all of those things, and now this.

And Holly isn't the only one. My sweet friend Caroline just passed the due date for her precious son, Jackson Dean. But of course Caroline doesn't have Jackson at home with her because he passed away just a few short hours after his birth over three months ago. She's now gearing up for a FET. There is so much strength there; it's really astounding.

I've never experienced a pregnancy... not really. For the last twenty years or so I've thought of pregnancy as this beautiful wonderland of fluffy clouds and wildflowers... what could be better? Pregnant women just glow, right? The experience of a pregnancy was actually part of the reason I wanted to pursue IVF rather than adoption... I wanted the experience. But after all I've seen, all I've read, all I've heard, pregnancy is starting to look and sound like the perfect cocktail for a mental breakdown. I've always been a fearful person. I'm not a risk taker... like, at all. I never learned to ride a bike because "what if I fall?" I'm not adventurous. I've never said "lets try it, just once". I typically stick to the safe, easy, tried and true method of things. IVF is not safe, easy, nor tried and true for me. It's adventurous, it's unknown, it's scary.

The days on the calendar are ticking by at some kind of crazy rate all of a sudden. For years, I have felt like the days were barely moving, like I couldn't wait one more minute to get there. But now that there is a date on the calendar, time is flying. And I'm scared. I'm scared of the medications. I don't do medication well... I have to be in a lot of pain to even take Tylenol (because what if it causes liver damage?). I'm the person who should not read the warning labels on medications because I will suddenly manifest all of the above. And IVF meds are no joke, so I'm scared. Scared of the risks I'm willing to take with my health both now and later to achieve this dream. I'm terrified of the needles. I know we already sort of conquered this with the last IUI... but lets get real. Follistim is the smallest needle available. And it isn't even a painful medication. It's not viscous. It doesn't burn. It's the easiest of all of the meds. The big boys are still to come. Risa just wrote a post about progesterone in oil... I'm pretty sure I swallowed bile. I'm terrified of the needles to come. I'm afraid of the pain from growing 20-30 eggs, afraid of the egg retrieval, the anesthesia, the risk of OHSS... it's all just really scary.

But the fear doesn't end there. Then there's the fear of failure. The fear of a broken heart, one that is far more severely broken than anything I've dealt with to date. I have assumed that even if it worked, I'd be afraid. I've seen two pink lines before... I know that fear well. But at some point, at some magical place I have assumed the fear would end. That the fluffy clouds would descend and the wildflowers would bloom and pregnancy would be this blissful wonderland of discomfort and nausea and pure AWESOMENESS. But now I'm not so sure. Will I ever be able to embrace a pregnancy and say "this, this is my bring home baby"? Today, it doesn't seem like it.

But the truth is, there is no easy way forward. IVF is fraught with danger and fear. There's no way around it... just got to go through it. Adoption isn't the fearless path either. I assure you, Erika is afraid of losing Ellison. The path from here to motherhood is going to be a scary thing. There doesn't seem to be any way around it. Even if I got pregnant on my own, without IVF, I would be afraid. I know too much.

The bible is filled with calls for faith, for trust... "Do not be afraid, for I am with you." (Isaiah 43:5) I am not Peter... I don't think I'd ever crawl out of that boat. But I'm asking the Lord to lead me through, to give me faith, to make me fearless. It's a long way from where I stand today to where I want to be. A long time to work on this fearful heart.

Please join me in continuing to pray for Holly, Darren, and baby Jude.

Sunshine and Roses

For several days now I've had every intention of responding to all of the lovely blog awards floating around the blogosphere these days. For some reason, people keep nominating me for the Sunshine Award... I imagine my mom gets a kick out of that. I think I was seven years old the first time I she told me I needed to be more positive. Sorry mom. It doesn't seem that I ever grew out of my pessimistic realistic ways.

But you guys, I just can't do it. I can't drum up a post of happiness and sunshine amidst all of the sadness that seems to have struck the infertility community. Some days it just seems so unfair. Why do the women who spend years trying to get pregnant, who take out loans and second mortgages just to pay for treatment, why, when it seems it is all finally coming together, are their dreams turned to nightmares, their hopes dashed? It just doesn't make any sense. I know that the world is full of the unfair; we live in a broken world. But some days, I just want kick my feet and scream because my friends don't deserve this.

My heart is broken for Holly right now, as I know many of yours are. She has fought so hard for this pregnancy. She has already suffered loss, both before this pregnancy and during. This is her second time going through a fresh IVF cycle and her third transfer. She transferred three embryos, saw THREE heartbeats, but sadly lost baby B at nine weeks. This pregnancy has already been filled with extreme highs and extreme lows. And now this. On the heels of her gender reveal her water broke at 17 weeks. Brinly, her precious daughter, is not expected to survive. There is no fluid surrounding her sweet girl. It is heartbreaking! Her son, Jude, is in a lot of danger too. Holly could go into labor at any time and obviously, at 17 weeks, there is nothing anyone can do to save either of her children. Holly is so strong. I know she'll get though this no matter what the outcome is, but it is just so, so sad that she even has to deal with this. I just want her to bring her babies home.

Sadly, Holly isn't the only mama to be struggling mightily with loss here lately. Conceptionally Challenged just lost her twins. Her membranes ruptured at just shy of 20 weeks and she ended up delivering both babies two days later. My heart broke reading about her labor and delivery story. I literally cannot fathom the kind of strength that it takes to unexpectedly deliver your first born in the bathroom at 20 weeks.... can. not. imagine.

These are just a couple of the late term crises that have come up in the month of October... I know there are several more out there dealing with PPROM or birth defects or other issues. It's really sad... really, really sad. At what point can a woman celebrate, and decorate, and feel confident in her pregnancy? I know for so many infertile women this is a huge issue they have to overcome... the fear of losing the pregnancy can be debilitating. I know for me, as I approach IVF for the first time in just a little over two months, I do so solemnly. I'm taking nothing for granted and recognizing that IVF is just the first step in a very long road towards a baby. Thoughts and questions have been swirling around in my head for the last few weeks... all the "what ifs?" and the "what do we do whens?". Some days the distance between point A (here, preIVF, no baby) and point B (there, bring home baby) seems so far... it's daunting. Who am I to think that my IVF will be successful when so many other beautiful women that I love and care so much for fail? Why do I think my pregnancy will be any different than Holly's or The Unexpected Trip's?

I'm so sorry to fill up the blog with sadness and despair. I know that my God is still God even when things look bleak. That He is a God of miracles, even if it's not the miracle we are looking for. I believe He is in control, but some days I'm still really, really mad. Today is one of those days. I promise I'll be back soon with a more balanced display of sunshine and clouds. Today, I'm somber as I envision the road before me and pray for my friends. Join me in sending lots of love to all of the ladies who have recently lost their precious babies and to Holly who is currently fighting for hers.

Two Words

Two years ago today, I read one of the two single most significant words of my life. I read "Pregnant" off of a Clearblue Easy Digital pregnancy test on a Friday afternoon. I just couldn't wait for the morning; the box of tests was calling to me, whispering sweet words of hope. I say that it was one of two words because the second most significant word came the next morning: "not pregnant" (that's two words, but whatever). On Friday, September 9, 2011, my whole world changed. The trajectory of my future took a sharp turn on that day. It was the exact path I'd been hoping for…. And then we veered off course. I was fully aware of my pregnancy without fear for all of fifteen hours. And then everything fell apart.

Miscarriage is a really hard thing to explain to someone who has never experienced it. I seem like the least authoritative person to discuss this as I a- knew about my pregnancy for 2.4 seconds, and b-sometimes doubt if I was even pregnant. But at the time, I fully believed I was pregnant and fully believed that my child was slipping away, one flush of the toilet at a time. To say it changed me, would be an understatement. It continues to change me today, two years later. It has changed my faith, my marriage, the way I perceive myself, my relationships with my family and friends. It has literally changed everything.

Miscarriage is not unique within the infertility and loss community. We carry more than our fair share of the losses. Interestingly enough, I did not count myself as a member of the community at the time. In fact, I was assured that this loss had nothing to do with infertility. This was only our fourth month of trying after all. This was not a sign of things to come, this was not reason to worry. It was simply an early loss, most likely due to some chromosomal issue. I heard "it's nature taking its course" and "it's your body protecting itself" so many times... I wanted to scream. Even then, even when everyone assured me that I would get pregnant again, that this was just an unfortunate circumstance, that we'd get another chance, even then, miscarriage hurt; hurt like hell.

I know that people outside of the infertility community wonder why in the world I'm still talking about this pregnancy two years after the fact. Lots of people have miscarriages, but they don't let it define them. I get that. Totally get it. But here's the thing: when you combine miscarriage and infertility, it changes things. I imagine I would still think back and wonder "what if"; I'd wonder how our lives would look different; I'd still want that child even if infertility never became a part of our story. But if our doctor had been right, if we'd gone on to conceive again five months later, I'd have a nine month old right now, and everything would be different. I'd still miss that child, but I'd have this child right in front of me, and I wouldn't trade, so I'd say "God's plan is perfect". I would agree with others that miscarriage sucks something terrible, but my scars would be healing, my fears would be relieved, my pain would be mitigated by the crawling, teething, happy little toddler before me.

You see, it's one thing to miscarry, but it's another thing entirely to lose what may be your only chance. Because that's what it feels like. To the women who wait years, not months, to conceive, that loss is magnified more that you can imagine. They've waited 2, 3, maybe 5 years or more for this chance. To have it stolen, to watch your child leave your body, to feel your baby break free from your womb after all that time... words can't describe it. All children are precious, but that child, that child was extra precious. It wasn't conceived in a hot tub, or after a night of over indulgence, or in a moment of love and passion between the sheets. That child was conceived in stirrups, or a petri dish, or from hours of painstakingly timed intercourse. That child cost tears, and pain, and stress, and thousands of dollars. That child was fought for. The child is not more valuable than the one more easily conceived, no, that's not what I'm saying. But to that mom and dad a miscarriage is not only a loss of that child (and that's bad enough) it's the loss of time, of  energy, of money, of hope. You see, it took Jack and Sue five years to see those two pink lines, and the truth is, they don't have another five years to wait. So Sue and Jack not only mourn the loss of the baby they conceived but also the hope they had placed in that baby. Now they must start over with no guarantee. Sure, there's a one in a bazillion chance that they'll get lucky again next month, but there is a greater chance that they might not get lucky again at all.

Miscarriage is terrible; it hurts like hell; it rips a hole in your chest that you can't seem to fill, but add in infertility, and you've got another level of pain and loss entirely. So yes, I cling to that pregnancy, that single word on that test like a life raft at sea in the middle of a storm because it's been two years and I haven't seen that word or heard it since then. All too often, that baby, that life seems like it was my one shot. So I continue to mourn not only that precious soul, but also the fulfillment of my dreams, the family we could have been, and the me I was before I ever read "not pregnant" that Saturday morning in September.

Bittersweet

Despite the truth in Erika's post about the very un-fall weather, Starbucks has favored me with one of my favorite drinks yet again. So even though the forecast calls for 88 degrees and blaring sunshine today, I'm indulging in my very first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the year.

 

 

 

Yep, this Pumpkin Spice Latte has my name all over it!

But the truth is, I don't freak out over PSLs the way I use to. Their lovely, spicey flavor is kind of tainted now... sort of bittersweet. You see it was on this Friday in September one hundred and four weeks ago that I saw my very first (and only) positive pregnancy test... and we all know how that turned out.

What in the world does a Pumpkin Spice Latte have to do with a pregnancy test and an eventual miscarriage? Absolutely nothing. I'm sure of that now. Starbucks did not kill my baby. But in the days post miscarriage, I was looking for any reason, any explanation as to why this was happening to me. I hadn't been drinking coffee as I had read to cut caffeine when trying to get pregnant, so I did. But I couldn't pass up this particular latte on my way into work one day, and boom... two days later, a positive pregnancy test turned negative. I thought of LOTS of things that I might have done wrong during that time; drinking coffee was just one of them. And like I said, I'm fully confident now that this had nothing to do with the miscarriage... I'm infertile after all.

Despite the knowledge, Pumpkin Spice Lattes have become irreversibly connected to my miscarriage. I can't drink one without a flood of memories washing back through me. In fact, last year, I was afraid to drink them, afraid of the pain and emotions that would resurface. But now, two years later, 99% of the time, I go throughout my days without thinking about my loss. It certainly changed me, and I never thought I'd get to a place where I didn't think about it everyday, but the truth is I don't. But the truth is also that the memories are sharp, clear, and just below the surface ready to replay at a moment's notice. So in a way, these warm, pungent beverages have become a sort of tradition, a way of remembering, a way of mourning. So I'll just sit here with my Pumpkin Spice Latte and sip it quietly and remember and wonder what might have been.

He Gives and Takes Away

Obviously, there was no need for my last post… all I really had to do was ask Suzanne. It's pretty apparent to me that we all need Suzanne to come to our consultations… talk about advocating for ourselves: she nailed it. Pretty impressive stuff. If you're thinking about IVF and missed the post, go check out all of the helpful responses I received!

Totally switching gears now… My heart is absolutely broken. I am so confused. So lost. So frustrated. So sad. So overwhelmed. So in awe. But let me back up. The last several weeks have been pretty awesome for my little corner of the blog world… babies everywhere! It was hard not to get caught up in the complete wonder of it all. Beautiful, glorious, loved, fought for babies came home with several mommas and it is amazing! It is absolutely awe inspiring to see these new mommas and daddies lay eyes on their child for the first time. Simply amazing.

But there's another side to this story, and it's a story that is all too familiar in the infertility and infant loss communities. My heart is absolutely broken for several friends right now. Words simply cannot express the depth of my sorrow. Many of these women have become close friends; I pray for them, I laugh with them, cry with them, we chat during the work days through email. My pain is only a fraction of their pain, and today I feel broken, defeated, frustrated, abandoned, and so on… I can't imagine what they feel.

I was pregnant for one brief nanosecond of time. I barely had time to wrap my head around the idea before the word miscarriage popped into our vocabulary. So in some ways, I know this pain. In other ways, their pain takes mine to a whole new level. Take Risa for instance. She just completed her first IVF. From the beginning, IVF wasn't what she had hoped for. Words like "poor responder" were tossed around, which I can only imagine was surprising and disheartening to say the least. But she completed the IVF cycle with hope… one embryo survived and was transferred back. No one ever expects for IVF to yield only one embryo, but it did, and she and her husband were so hopeful. And it worked… positive pregnancy tests showed that her little embryo had implanted. Sadly, her sweet Adam left her and her husband behind. They are now mourning what could have been,  picking up the pieces of their broken hearts, and processing where they want to go from here. My heart hurts so much for them. To lose a child, even when you've only known about it for a few days in an intense pain... but for most people, IVF is all about the back up plan, the embryos on ice. I'm sure that neither of them ever expected to go through IVF and have nothing left over... it's another loss in and of itself, the loss of a second chance, the loss of potential. It's all just so hard.

Then there is CP. This sweet lady seemed like she was on her way to her miracle take home baby. She did IVF in February only to discover that it worked on their first attempt! She and her husband were over the moon at the prospect of bringing home a baby. They found out early due to testing that they were having a son, but with that news also came some worrying findings. With time they learned that their precious son had a life threatening condition called CDH, but they never lost hope. They sought out awesome doctors, and prayed over their son. Even when her water broke unexpectedly at 24 weeks, she never gave up hoping that her son would come home with her. I learned on Sunday that Jackson Dean died last Wednesday, two hours after his birth. Tears streamed down my face as I read her honest, uplifting post of thanks for her precious son. To lose a child at any stage is heart breaking... I can vouch for that, I lost mine about as early as possible, but to lose a child you gave birth to, a child you held, a child you could do nothing to save... the pain is simply unfathomable.

My  heart was so broken as I read her post on Sunday, I literally wanted to crawl under the covers. But I didn't. I went to my church's community worship event and cried and prayed and told God that I didn't understand His ways. I agreed that His ways are not mine because I would never let that happen. Big picture be darned, she deserved her baby (and this is why I'm not God, obviously). I got home to find another post from one of my favorite women I've met in this terrible journey. Suzanne's story is nothing like mine in terms of infertility diagnosis, but there has just been something about her since I found her blog that has connected me to her story and called to my heart. Tears are literally falling as I type... this is just so hard. I got home last night to find that Suzanne's miracle story had also ended. Suzanne's story is frustrating to say the least... she was learning to let the dream of a biological child end. She was in the midst of happily embracing donor eggs. She was excited about her future again. And then out of nowhere, on the heels of a failed IVF cycle, she became pregnant, with her OWN egg, with no treatment... it was shocking, it was amazing, it was a miracle. Surely a miracle like this, a light where there is so much darkness, life where there has been only death will make it, I told myself. I prayed with her, waited anxiously with her for each new beta, each step led me closer to believing I was witnessing a legitimate, God breathed life, kind of miracle. To hear that it's over is crushing. My heart hurts so badly for her. I know that she will go on to find her donor, to cycle at CCRM, and I'm praying with everything I've got that she brings her baby home... yes, there can still be a happy ending to this story, but right now, in the midst of the brokenness, in the very center of all of this heartache, I just want to know why.

Today I feel so very, very crushed, so low, so confused, and ultimately so sad. My friends don't deserve this. And the most frustrating thing is that I have no answers for them... they don't need trite responses, they need love, and hope, and understanding. Ladies, my heart breaks for all of you... for all of you who have, who are, or who will experience the loss of a child. Nothing prepares you for that kind of pain. I'm so sorry that this is a part of your story.

Father God, I love you, but if I'm being really honest, I'm not sure I like you today. You give and take away, but I don't understand why. Your ways are not my ways, and I fully trust that there is a plan, that that there is a reason, but the not knowing, the not understanding... that is so hard. Father, even though there's pain in the offering, blessed be Your name.

Something to Celebrate

Tomorrow, my baby should turn one. We should be celebrating this weekend with a big ol' party. We should be having fun photo shoots where she smashes the cake and smears icing all over her pudgy little body. We should be attending Sam's graduation this week as a family of three. Instead, I'm left to mourn what might have been. I wish so badly that my baby had stuck around. I wish my body didn't suck. I wish that whatever went wrong in those early moments of life didn't go wrong. I wish I could have loved her and held her for a year.

Tomorrow's going to suck. Heck, let's be honest, there have been quite a few sucky days in the last two years. The start of May also signals another year of trying. Yep, in case you missed it, it's official: we have been actively trying for 2 years. Blughhh. It just sucks.

However, I'm doing my very, very best to find happiness in this current stage of life. In light of that, I'm going to find something else to celebrate. Tomorrow marks NINE YEARS since my husband first thought I was attractive. Actually, in his words, he thought, "my legs were hot". Oh, to have my 120 pound, 18 year old body back. But that's actually a really dumb anniversary, so let's go with this:

Today marks NINE YEARS since I met my husband*

What was I doing nine years ago? I'm glad you asked. I was going to my senior prom… with someone other than my husband. It's far too long and sordid of a history to share, but essentially, we met at my high school's prom in 2004. I went with my boyfriend of two and a half years, and Sam went with a friend from my high school. He attended a different rival high school at the other end of the county. We went in a very large group, so I didn't really pay too much attention to him. Plus, it was my last high school dance and I was super in love. I had no time for other boys. 

However, after we started dating I learned that although my eyes weren't wandering, his had fully looked and decided that they liked what they saw. Our group divided up that evening (guys/girls) for sleepovers, but we reconvened the next morning at breakfast. I didn't remember what I wore two years later when he told this story, but he did. Most important were some navy shorts that apparently did wonders for my legs. Hooked him!

The truth is that we went our separate ways that day and I didn't think of him again for quite some time. It would be almost a year later before we really even became good friends, but eventually I saw him as more than a friend and the timing was right for both of us. We never looked back.

So instead of thinking about all that I've lost tomorrow, I'm going to think about all that my long, skinny legs and some navy shorts got me nine years ago. In honor of nine years, or one third of our lives, I thought we'd take a little walk down memory lane with some fun photos. Enjoy!

February 2006: After the Georgia vs Vanderbilt game

July 2006: Vacation with Sam's family to Kentucky.
Yes, we know the little cutie in the swing, we aren't playground creepers.

August 2006: Moving Sam into his first off campus apartment at UGA

October 2006: UGA vs Tennessee
(sorry for the belly exposure)

August 2007: Waiting on the annual fireworks at the Starlight Concert

March 2008: Heading to a date night at Chops in Atlanta

July 2008: Fourth of July waiting on the fireworks

October 2008: Fall break stop in Savannah on our way to Georgia/Florida

December 2008: Christmas morning with my mom's family

June 2009: Night out with friends at Chow Baby

May 2009: My Exhibition Show for graduating from
UGA's Lamar Dodd School of Art in Graphic Design

May 2009: Graduation Party for me
(That's Soo Ming with us, not Everest)

May 2009: I finally graduated!
We can walk through the UGA Arches together!

May 2009: We're ENGAGED!!!
(sorry for the awful make-up, I sobbed)

June 2009: Annual Starlight Concert
(the real us, I use him as a foot rest all the time)

August 2009: Engagement Party

November 2009: Engagement photos courtesy of the*Reason

November 2009: Engagement photos at Montaluce Vineyards

December 2009: Waiting on Christmas breakfast with the family

January 2010: Sam and I with the wedding party tasting
(and scoring) cheesecakes for the wedding at the Cheesecake Factory

April 2010: Wedding Day! First dance at reception

April 2010: Good morning newlyweds! You're looking mighty fine!
Free first class upgrade on our way to Denver.

April 2010: Honeymoon in Breckenridge, Colorado
First night it snowed!

October 2010: Georgia vs Vanderbilt

November 2010: Thanksgiving Dinner

December 2010: Yep, that's right. White Christmases are possible in Georgia too!

April 2011: First Anniversary. Carnival Cruise to Western Caribbean

April 2011: First Anniversary. Excursion day at Grand Cayman.

August 2011: Canoeing the Kentucky River

September 2011: UGA vs Coastal Carolina

October 2011: Family photos down at the Canal in Augusta

April 2012: Second Anniversary trip to Atlanta.
Headed out to eat at Nava in Atlanta.

April 2012:  Our second Anniversary
Dinner at The Atlanta Fish Market

June 2012: Photo fun with the Fenton's

October 2012: Camping Trip to North Carolina

December 2012: Wedding for two of Sam's classmates

April 2013: Anniversary dinner at Ruth's Chris

I'm lucky to have found you Sam. Thanks for loving me and marrying me. And thank you for giving me something else to celebrate today... Yep, ladies and gentlemen, Sam passed his board exams!!! He's one small diploma away from being a licensed Physical Therapist!

 *Fun fact. After we started dating, I learned that we, in fact, met prior to the prom. We met in preschool. Sam and I were in the same preschool class way back when. Here's proof:

Sam is the cutie on the left. I'm the one rocking the side-pony and the frown.