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Thursday, November 29, 2012

Playing with a deck, half-stacked.

I’m feeling pulled to write again.  It’s cathartic.  Healing.  And, allows me to say what goes through my mind that I’d probably verbalize to a stranger in line at the grocery store, because that’s how I roll, but there’s something even more freeing in documenting it.  

So, let’s talk about it.  Rip the old Band-Aid off.  Get it out in the open. 

B and I have been trying to get pregnant for a year and a half.  Obviously, unsuccessfully.  It’s still just us, and that spirited little guy named Beckham, who we love and adore with all our hearts.  But, MY plan was to add onto our family well before I turned 30.  Which happens in less than a month (gah!).  So, yeah, that’s not happening. 


In the past year and half, it seems that practically everyone I know – who’s wanted to become pregnant – has.  And, literally, everyone I know who had a baby around the same time I had Beckham has added a second or third child to their families.  Dagger. To. My. Heart.


In January, which seems eons ago at this point, I visited my OBGYN who said the standard, Well, just keep on trying.  You have a kid, so we know the parts are there.  Come back in six months.

I might’ve fibbed a little when May rolled around, we still weren’t pregnant, and I told the lady that picked up the phone that Dr. C told us to book an appointment if we’d made it to that iconic year mark.  It wasn’t a year.  That was the fib.  It was only 11 months.  But I couldn’t wait a month longer. 

Dr. C advised an HSG test, which runs dye through the ol’ fallopian tubes and uterus.  Then, they take an x-ray of your insides.  Hmmmmm, you’re playing with a deck half-stacked.  That’s what he said as I lay there feeling all No freaking way.  I cried.  B was there and gave me hand-squeezes and hugs.  {Playing with a deck half-stacked, for those of you unfamiliar with this medical terminology, means blockages.  No explanation.  Just blocked.}

New plan = Clomid.  I’m thrilled for this stride.  My inner dialogue goes something like this, Now we’re going to get pregnant.  Maybe even twins!  This will be easy!  I’ll get pregnant by July, have a baby in April, and have an extended maternity leave before starting the 2013-2014 school year.  Clomid, clomid, clomid!  I LOVE CLOMID.

Four rounds of Comid later, I was over it.  HOLY HOTFLASHES, I HATE CLOMID. You would’ve thought I was fifty and menopausal the way I flung those sheets off and on throughout the night.   More importantly, we still weren’t pregnant.  

New plan = Fertility specialist with an exciting, expensive plan, known to commonfolk as turkey bastin’ or, when I’m trying to sound smart, Intra-uterine Insemination (IUI).  This meant 5 days of a stronger fertility drug, Femara, followed by a shot of Ovidril.  My new inner dialogue goes something like this, THE ANSWER TO OUR PRAYERS.  This will work!  How can it not?!  We are timing everything, taking drugs, and seeing a FERTILITY SPECIALIST.  This is soooooooo going to work!!!!! 

Except it didn’t. 


{B and I at our pre-IUI breakfasts.  Not as lucky as I would’ve liked, but dang those pancakes were good!}

The doctor said it usually takes 3-5 times for success.  A friend tried NINE times with no success.  We tried it twice.  And, both times, I morphed into some combination of a lunatic and a peeonastickaholic.  The hormones were maddening and I’d take anywhere from 3-10 tests each round, despite the fact they were all negative.  I’m telling you, I was Miss Crazy Pants. 

So, last month, we decided we were done.  Done with the drugs.  Done with the planning and scheduling.  Done with the doctor’s appointments.  Done with the negative tests.  Done with the two-week-wait.  DUN-ZO. 

It was all very matter-of-fact.  We quit trying to get pregnant

I felt a peace about it all.  Glad to part with all the uncertainty that comes with trying to conceive. 

And, God.  There’s Him.  Who reveals His plan in His time.  And, we’re going to travel that path now. 

I’m going to give up control.  Which is difficult for me.  I like to know what’s going to happen to me, to feel that I had a big part in its making.  But, the bottom line, is that I’ve never had a part in that plan.  I think it’s a good thing, though :)


Monday, November 26, 2012

Undeservedly blessed.



I love the holidays.  The rush, the pick-up in everyone’s step.  Like there’s places to be and people to see.  Even on a  Monday night.  Maybe it’s because I love the hustle so much that I impose the excitement on everyone else.  I just imagine everyone to be out Christmas shopping, off to visit with family and friends, or grabbing an Egg Nog Latte from Starbucks.  Not returning from work in rush hour traffic, which is the more logical conclusion on the last Monday in November.

There’s something about that hustle motivates me.  I want to light holiday-scented candles, put up our tree, cut out felt banners that spell Merry Christmas and string them up across a wall.  I want to bake cookies and have friends over and sit by a fire.  I want to write.  An odd feeling after a six month hiatus. 

The hustle makes me want to slow down, too.  To take time and make it stretch over more days than it’s supposed to.  To have extended breaks with nothing scheduled but family time.  To relish in the now and cherish the precious moments I have with my boys.  

Introspectively, the value of the holidays has increased substantially in the past few years for me. There was a time, about two years ago, that I prayed for the peace I feel about life right now.  That this is where I’m supposed to be.  Here, in this moment, loving every second of my life and praising God for it. 

Undeservedly blessed