Month: November 2021

I sat down at my computer this morning, cup of coffee in hand, intent on writing a motivational(ish) Thanksgiving-related post. I even began with a Google search for: Thanksgiving Quotes, saving a few aesthetically pleasing images to my desktop. But, I opened this document to begin typing and, I’m not going to lie…it felt fake. Forced. And, the most important thing to me, as far as this blog is concerned, is authenticity. 

I am an appreciator. Honestly, I think it is in the marrow of my bones. I appreciate everything: a smile from a stranger I pass repeatedly in the grocery store because we are walking opposite, but the same, paths, a kind word left on a post-it note, the simple piano melody of Clair de Lune (my favorite song), the way lobster bisque, sourdough bread, and a dry red wine create the absolute perfect flavor combination (this is fact, and you cannot change my mind). 

I am pretty sure any thesaurus would list appreciative as a synonym for thankful–two combinations of letters to be used interchangeably. But, that’s like a sixth grader writing: I walked outside to find the sun shining and it felt prodigious. *Insert mini-lesson on the nuances of the English language, and why, just because prodigious is listed as a synonym for amazing (and you’ve already used amazing in your story thirteen times), we can’t just pick it because it “sounds the fanciest”. 

With the onslaught of motivational posts as I scrolled through Facebook this morning, I realized that appreciative and thankful, though not quite as divergent as amazing and prodigious, are not always synonymous. 

Sometimes being thankful is complicated. And, I think that’s okay. This isn’t to say I am not grateful for the life I have. I am. Unquestionably. But sometimes, that which is immediately in front of us casts such a large shadow, it makes it hard to see anything else. And sometimes the beginning of a shadowy journey falls at the time of year that “being thankful” (and even more so–being publicly thankful on social media) is apropos. The holidays seem to be a subliminal reminder that family is everything. I am incredibly lucky to have one of the best. But also…I want one of my own. And honestly, the holiday season can make it hard to think of little else. 

Fertility drugs don’t play. I have had a headache that hasn’t taken a break in two solid weeks. Most nights, when I am trying to fall asleep, I get what I can only describe as restless legs…of my entire body. These are just a few of the physical by-products of the (hopefully) miraculous medicines. I’ll admit, they are not the worst side effects I could possibly have, and the more difficult ones are undoubtedly mental and emotional. Even those are, by no means, permanent roadblocks to my thanksgiving. But, they’re there. And, in the spirit of candid authenticity, I can’t pretend they’re not. 

I am not so naive to assume that infertility is the only cause of holiday stress. So, I am writing today to say this: if being publicly thankful feels like a prodigious feat (see what I did there?) for you, for whatever reason. I see you. That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate a cheesy casserole and a slice of pumpkin pie together. Cheers. 

(eleven. twenty-four. twenty twenty-one)

Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say, and sometimes I stare at a blank document and type and delete 47 different opening sentences because nothing sounds right. At this exact moment, my blog is sitting at 618 views. I can barely comprehend that number. I’ve said before, this whole thing started as something I didn’t really intend to share. As I wrote my second entry, a small part of me started thinking that it could be something big. I don’t mean “big” as in reaching a lot of people; but rather reaching some people in “big” ways. I think my tiny piece of the internet is doing a little of both. There are so many people following my story now, and when I say I can feel you in my corner, I mean it. 

Infertility is damn lonely. It makes you feel stuck in time, like that Christmas snow globe that you unbox every holiday season. You give it a shake and watch plastic snowflakes rise and fall over the same scene–year after year. In the beginning, you watch your friends and (close-in-age) family members begin families of their own. For a while, you tell yourself: There’s still time for me. If I have a baby in a year or two, our kids can grow up together. You stomach the baby showers. You listen to all the woes of pregnancy with a sympathetic look on your face. You convince yourself there’s still time. 

Then time, being the cold-hearted bitch that she is, keeps going without looking back. Not even for a second does she bother to glance in her rearview mirror. So, you peer out of your frozen-in-time snow globe and keep telling yourself there’s still time; just maybe with a little less confidence now. With plastic snowflakes on your eyelashes you fake a thousand smiles. Then, the generation behind you starts having babies and you can’t attend a baby shower without triggering a full blown panic attack, and you find yourself begging to be put back in the box of Christmas decorations and stored in the attic. 

I tell you this story, though, to say thank you. Thank you for making it less lonely. Thank you for every kind comment and word of support. I could not do this alone.

So, just a little update for those that are interested: today was the last day of the fertility drugs for round two. It was a much stronger dose and taken earlier in my cycle. So now I wait, stomach the side effects, and continue to monitor and test and cross every finger on my hand that it actually triggers ovulation this time. I tested too early last cycle and the false positives did a number on my spirt. This time I am being patient. You see, in addition to all the testing, there’s also a lot of waiting in infertility. 

Once again, thank you for reading my words. And thank you for shaking my snow globe and reminding me how beautiful the snowflakes can actually be. 

(eleven. seventeen. twenty twenty-one)

Sometimes you can follow all the rules and things still don’t work out. Sometimes the only words you can think of have four letters.

I did everything right. I have the charts and graphs to prove it. I took the correct medications and supplements at the precisely right times. I used color coordinated pens to make sure I kept track of 6AM temperatures, results of every stick I peed on, every pill I took, and every time my husband so much as looked at me for longer than 3 seconds. (Okay, maybe that last one is a slight exaggeration, even though it feels about right.) I ate the right foods. I drastically cut sugar, caffeine, and alcohol. I did all the positive thinking a girl could possibly do. 

I did all those things (and more), and it still didn’t work. 

I know you’re probably thinking: But wait, didn’t you just start? How do you already know? You’re not wrong. I did just start. Today was supposed to be day 12 of my cycle–the official day to start watching for ovulation. This is the day that has been circled on my calendar. It was supposed to be the turning point. Instead, it is day one of a new cycle. 

I woke up to minor bleeding yesterday. While the logical side of me knew it wasn’t a good sign, there was a tiny part of me that thought it might indicate actual ovulation. According to my trusty friend, the internet, this does happen for 3% of fertile women. Today proved otherwise when I awoke at 2am with intense cramps and more bleeding. 

I can’t speak highly enough of my doctor. They were able to see me this afternoon and we are jumping right into round 2. I have stronger drugs and we’re moving the timeline up. 

I received a fresh clean chart. My colored pens are ready. I’m still following all the rules. (Could I sound any more like a teacher?!) I’m doing all the right things as best as I can and trying to only think of one four letter word: hope. 

(eleven. eleven. twenty twenty-one)

Dear Hypothetical Baby…or HB for short, 

I originally started this blog as a future gift for you–a love letter of sorts. I had no intention of ever sharing my thoughts with the world (or my tiny corner of it, anyway). But shortly after the first “installment” of your present, I changed my mind. And Love, even before your existence, you’re making a difference. And I cannot wait to tell you all about it. 

Someday I will tell you the story of how so many people were rooting for you before you were even you. I know that thought is going to seem strange to you at first. “How can people be in the corner of someone who doesn’t exist?” you’ll ask. “What was I before I was me?” 

First, I will tell you to go ask your father. Then, I will tell you how the story of “how you came to be” provided comfort for so many people who were also aching for their own HB. You will grow up knowing that you don’t give up just because something is hard. If you care about it, you keep fighting. You will be brave, my child. You will be brave because you came from fighters. And before you were anything, you were a fighter. 

Someday I will read you my favorite children’s book: Walk Two Moons. The entire book centers around the Native American proverb that says “You shouldn’t judge a man until you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins.” I will tell you about how your story (and this love letter to you) helped others walk in moccasins they would never have otherwise known. To be able to bring light to something so many people fight in the dark…that’s a big thing, little one. 

I don’t know when you’ll get here. I don’t know when I’ll hear your heartbeat for the first time. I don’t know when I’ll get to feel you kick. I don’t know when I’ll get to find out if you’re a boy or a girl. (Your name is already picked out, either way.) I don’t know any of these things, HB. But, until then, I’m waiting. I’m doing everything I can to make sure you hurry up and get here safely. 

Oh, baby, I have so much I want to tell you. But until you get here, I’ll just keep writing it down here so that I don’t forget anything. You see, your momma may be a storyteller, but she is horrible at remembering details. 

Earlier, I said that before you were anything, you were a fighter. But even before you were a fighter, you were loved. 

Love, 

Your Hypothetical Mom…or HM for short

(eleven. eight. twenty twenty-one)

Turns out getting pregnant is hard. Like, really hard. There are charts and graphs of basal body temperatures (taken precisely at 6:00 every. single. morning.) and LH surges (whatever LH is). There are specific dosages of medications at specific times of the evening. There are ovulation predictor kits and prenatal vitamins. There are fertility superfood diets and all sorts of supplements. And I’m not even going into all the other things that must be impeccably timed. While I would be the person to organize the hell out of my uterus, it begins to feel like a bit much–even for me and my color coded outlining habits. 

Our official journey began this week with another appointment at the fertility clinic. With Justin standing beside me, we stared at a black and white fuzzy screen as the doctor pointed out my empty uterus. “And this is where we hope to see a baby soon.” 

It was in that moment that everything changed. 

Up until then, I kept telling myself that I have to do this because I would always wonder what could have been if we didn’t give it one last chance. This was a “peace of mind” adventure with a possible fantastic outcome. But in that moment, staring at the back and white screen, this became more than a wish. As he marked and measured a ring of cysts in each ovary, I had a glimpse of what it would be like to have him point out a heartbeat instead. It was then that I realized that all of my eggs are (quite literally) in this basket. 

We left the hospital with drugs, charts, and a list of directions a mile long. But we also left with a whole lot of hope.

(eleven. three. twenty-twenty one.)