at last

I debated whether to write about THIS here, now, or not. But after all the writing I've done about this subject on this blog and over at my original blog, Average Everyday Super Woman, over the past four years, I realize that I can't NOT share THIS. THIS is the whole point of this blog, and I've seen first-hand that me sharing my stories and experiences with secondary infertility has helped others going through it.

So, here THIS is:

I'm pregnant!

It seems so inadequate a phrase for something that has been so fervently wished, hoped and prayed for over the past 4-1/2 years, but it's also been the goal of all of the tears, treatments and waiting, the surgery, medications and frustrations.

Anyone who has wanted and longed and waited for a baby can understand how this has felt, this journey of 4-1/2 years. It was long. It was often lonely. It was confusing, struggling with the question of whether to give up or keep going. The miscarriage in May was devastating, and really became a pivotal point for me.

At first I looked at the miscarriage as God's or the Universe's way of making sure I didn't lose faith and give up -- after all those years of trying and NOT getting pregnant, at least I finally got pregnant: we knew then that we could still make it happen.

And then I wondered if the miscarriage was the sign that while YES we could force a pregnancy with our medical team, it wasn't meant to be and I should accept that and walk away.

Ultimately, Super Man and I decided we'd continue with our remaining IUIs. BUT we agreed that IF I had another miscarriage, we'd get through it and then leave our dream of another child behind and move forward with our family as it is. Oh, that was a painful decision to make... But I know in my heart that I could not go through any more of ANY of it if we lost another baby.

And then...

IUI #4 on 8/25/10 worked.

I found out at my annual ob-gyn appointment on 9/8/10 that I was pregnant again. I didn't think I was; I didn't think that IUI had worked. I felt like my period was coming, although it was one day late. I asked them to give me a pee test just so I could know and be done with it and move on, and lo and behold, the nurse came in and told me the test was POSITIVE. I was pregnant. I was pregnant!!

My hCG numbers were light-years better than those from April. This time, my first hCG was 273.3, one day after missing my period, and my second hCG was up to 688.5, three days after missing my period. My progesterone was 48. Back in April, my hCG was only 27.2 four days after missing my period, and had gone up to just 99.6 six days after missing my period. I have no idea what my progesterone was that time, but it didn't matter: In the end, I lost that pregnancy.

But this one. This one looks like a keeper. At last...

I had a 7-week ultrasound this morning with one of our fertility specialists. I was so nervous all morning. I've felt so different this time, much more pregnant, more like when I was expecting Super Boy, but still. Last time, I thought it was all good and then showed up for the ultrasound only to find out I'd had a blighted ovum.

But this time... My ultrasound showed a growing baby, 7 weeks and 1 day, with a heart rate of 135 beats per minute. I have a picture of the little nut, although it's impossible to see anything in detail. It simply provides the black and white proof that I needed to see with my own eyes: There is a baby, in my belly, and it's alive and growing.

And that's all I need to know for now.

My mom was convinced there were babies. Thankfully, there's just the one baby. Super Man would twitch every time my mom spoke of multiples, although we knew it was possible due to the fertility meds and his family history of twins. As it is, he's so happy and excited, but nervous about being 45 with a newborn, an 8-year-old and a 15-year-old, come spring. I get it; I do. But he's not the only man that age to become a father again, and he surely won't be the last.

I reminded him that it's one of the few drawbacks of him having married a younger woman. He smiled and laughed.

I can't help but think of the irony of the timing of my starting this new blog. I was just going into IUI #4, and although I was hoping for the best, the realist in me was grimly preparing myself for the worst. I had finally forced myself to begin contemplating how I'd cope with coming to the end of the IUI road without another baby, since IUI was literally the end of the road for us. There was to be no in vitro, no adoption, no nothin' beyond our six planned IUIs.

People often asked me why I didn't stop, why I kept trying for FOUR AND A HALF YEARS for another baby. The answer was simple: I always believed there was another baby waiting for us to get the timing & details right. My belief was unwavering. Until the miscarriage. And then I did start thinking that maybe my belief was simply desperate desire & delusion. Now I know otherwise, but I can't help but wonder if my starting this blog and preparing myself for the outcome I DIDN'T want helped make sure that the outcome I DID want would come to pass.

For all of you reading this who are going through your own struggles with secondary infertility, please know you aren't and haven't been alone. Please take this news of mine and hold hope in your hearts that your own good news, your own miracle, is just around the corner. Figure out with your partner how far you're willing to go to have another child, and then resolve to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Hope, hope, hope. And then hope some more.

I am still here, and I will still write here about what our journey to this baby has been like. I don't want to end this blog, and it's my hope that through this blog and through my fertility specialists I can continue to be a resource for others going through secondary infertility. I have no intention of abandoning this cause.

Thank you for reading my words, for pulling for us, and for believing in miracles!!

SW

a big day

Tomorrow is a big day for us. I can't say why just yet; I just ask that you trust me on that.

In the meantime, I have to ask for lots of prayers and good thoughts and good juju. So much is riding on the outcome of one hour of our day tomorrow that my head is spinning. As has become my motto in life, I'm hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

Just please, please, please let it be the best outcome!

Thanks for hanging with me, fellow secondary infertiles & family/friends. You have no idea how much it has meant to me.

SW

power of prayer?

People have often told me over the years that they were keeping me/us in their prayers that God would answer our prayers and give us another child to complete our family. I always appreciated the sentiment and was grateful for their prayers, as I was of course also praying HARD AND CONSTANTLY for the same thing. Only it seemed like God wasn't listening. To any of us.

I'm Catholic. I'm ashamed to say I don't understand my religion completely, but I'm working on it. I have a few big issues with the Catholic Church, and sometimes I wonder if I truly am a Catholic then, or if I'm really "just" a Christian. I'm not sure that it matters entirely what my label is, though.

What I do consider myself to be whole-heartedly is spiritual. I DO believe in God. I DO believe there is a higher power that created us all and guides our lives in ways big and small, and that all of life MEANS something, whether we ever figure out the meaning or not.

So, through the past four-and-a-half years of trying for another baby, yes, I have prayed. Not just to God and Jesus, but to the Universe-at-large. I have prayed that we would find the last member (or members) of our family, somewhere, somehow.

When after three-and-a-half years of trying on our own under the care of my regular ob-gyn we were still not pregnant, I made an appointment with our fertility specialists. I had thought about seeking help from them sooner, but something always held me back. Admittedly for awhile it was a financial consideration, as our insurance wouldn't cover testing or treatment for infertility. But even when we came into new insurance that would cover testing and treatment (up to and including IUI but NOT in vitro), I hesitated to take that step. Maybe it was a matter of feeling ashamed that after achieving one pregnancy (Super Boy) easily and without assistance, we were now completely incapable of repeating our success; maybe it was a bit of resistance due to the sheer sterile mechanics of it all and not wanting to completely rely on medicine & science to make it happen at the expense of love and romance.

How silly of me, I know. For starters, while the love was always present, the romance was long gone! That went out the window after about Year #2 of trying to conceive without success. Beyond that point, it was like a critical monthly mission planned with military precision more than any kind of stolen romantic moments. I had laser-like focus on my window of fertile opportunity, and Super Man just jumped when I said jump. Or, well, you know.

Very hot, yes?

With the first IUI, we sort of knew what to expect, having talked it through with the doctors, but we both felt a little weird about the whole thing, given that we wouldn't even be in the same room when the insemination actually happened. Super Man would go in to the fertility clinic early in the morning, do his thing in a specimen cup, and drive his usual hour commute to work. Two hours later, I'd show up at the fertility doctors' office, strip from the waist down and the doctor and his med student assistant would attempt to impregnate me, with Super Man's swimmers.

Tres romantique, eh?

The only thing that remained spiritual about our new, more scientific attempts to conceive was the praying. As I'd lay on the table for the required 8 minutes after each IUI, I would pray the entire time that our prayers would finally be answered and I'd get pregnant with another baby. I'd cry, too - I'm a hyper-emotional person on my best days, and trust me, the fertility medications only "enhanced" that aspect of my personality. Think PMS ALL THE TIME. Between the praying and the crying and the enormous hope bursting forth from my chest, I felt convinced each time that we would MAKE this happen, by sheer force of will and want.

And yet, I was let down time and again.

And then something happened.

I met a wonderful woman through the new church we joined at the same time we began seeing the fertility specialists. This woman happens to be a nun. And I felt an instant spiritual connection to her.

I can't explain it, and believe me, I've tried to understand it. All I can say is that she reminds me very much of one of my grandmothers, the one I lost too soon, when I was only 10. That grandmother is the only member of my family that I closely resemble, and I always felt I had a special relationship with her, as a child. To see Sister A. and see so much of my grandmother in her was astonishing.

But the connection I felt to her went beyond that; it was like I knew we had been brought together on purpose, at that time, for a reason. I knew she was there to help me as I continued on - and will eventually finish - my journey to try to have another child. What I am meant to be to her, I don't know - but I suspect she does.

I felt compelled to tell her about our struggle, and to ask her for her help in the form of prayer. It was so weird, how strong the urge was, because I usually get to know people a little bit before I bare that part of my life to them. But I shared our situation with Sister A. and asked for her help. She didn't judge me, she didn't make me feel bad or guilty for pursuing fertility treatment; she just told me sincerely and with great kindness and respect that she would be praying for us, and would ask her sisters from her Mother House in Ohio to pray for us, as well.

Over the following months, as we continued on our fertility treatment path, Sister A. would periodically approach me or email me to see how things were going, and to assure me that she was still praying for us constantly. She would send me special prayers in the mail and via email, and include us on the weekly prayer list (without naming us, per my request).

I found out earlier this year that she was leaving our parish and taking on a new ministry in Kentucky, working with the poor in the mountain communities. I was devastated to learn that she was leaving, considering I'd just found her a few months prior, but I knew in my heart she had to answer her call. It was embarrassing how strongly I was reacting to her news, with tears and true sadness to lose her. She assured me she'd stay in touch, and wasn't leaving until summer besides, and she put me at ease. Still, when the end of the religious education classes came around in early April and the going away celebration was had for Sister A., I couldn't stop crying. I was truly heartbroken to know she'd be gone soon.

When I found out that IUI #3 worked at the very end of April, Sister A. emailed me the day after to see if I had any news, almost as though she KNEW I did. I shared the happy, long-awaited news with her and she was thrilled for us. Her sisters back in Ohio emailed us their congratulations as well, and I was so incredibly touched. Over the next two weeks, Sister A. sent me adorable baby-themed notecards so I could continue to write her and update her on the pregnancy after she left for Kentucky, which I was so touched by.

Unfortunately, I lost that pregnancy just a few weeks after it began. I immediately wrote Sister A. to tell her the devastating news. I told her that I was heart-broken, numb, struggling with turning to God for comfort, after He had given me the gift I'd waited so long for only to take it away. She told me how sorry she was, but encouraged me to keep faith, not to give up, to trust that there was a reason. I resisted embracing that thought, but it turns out, she was right.

When I tried to get pregnant with Super Boy, it took us three attempts. I was terribly sad when the first two failed, but after I got pregnant with Super Boy and delivered him - my beautiful, healthy, wonderful little boy - it occurred to me that if I had gotten pregnant on either of the other two attempts, I wouldn't have HIM -- I'd have a different child. And how could I wish for that when the child I ended up having was so perfectly wonderful and lovely and everything I could have ever dreamed of and hoped for and more?

I believe now that the pregnancy in April happened to make me realize that I was right to keep trying, even though everyone around me seemed to be losing faith that I'd ever get pregnant again. That all-too-brief pregnancy happened to keep me from giving up. And I believe that I lost that pregnancy because the child we're meant to have is still coming to us. I firmly believe - and always have - that there IS another child in the Universe destined for us. When it happens, it will happen because THAT is the child we're supposed to add to our family.

Sister A. was right to encourage me to keep faith in God, to trust that He has His reasons. I see that, and I believe that.

Sister A. emailed me right before our fourth IUI attempt from late August, to let me know that she continues to pray for us, always, and that I'd been in her thoughts. I think that was a very good sign.

And I still believe.

hCG

Those of you who have been on the infertility rollercoaster with me for awhile are well-versed about this weird little acronym, but for those who are NOT, pull up a chair and sit tight for a little bit of edumacation!

First, a definition: hCG stands for "human chorionic gonadotropin," and it is a hormone. Its role in pregnancy is critical. CRITICAL, I tell you. I say that because it is produced by the developing embryo after conception, and it prevents the corpus luteum of the ovary from dissolving, thereby ensuring that a woman's progesterone levels stay elevated to support the pregnancy. Without adequate progresterone, a pregnancy cannot be sustained.

When a person is trying to conceive and gets close to or passes the end of their cycle, they often buy a home pregnancy test. PEE STICKS!! FUN STUFF, I tell you! (At least for the first few months. After four-and-a-half years, however... You get the drift.) Anyway, the pee sticks are designed to detect hCG concentration in a woman's urine to determine whether there is a pregnancy. Most home pregnancy tests won't turn positive until hCG is above 20 or 25. Blood hCG tests are more precise, and they are sensitive enough to detect serum hCG levels even lower than 5. For the record, fertility doctors consider pregnancy to be achieved any time hCG is over 5.

Now, when I got pregnant with Super Boy many, MANY moons ago (he was conceived in August 2002 and I tested positive on September 14, 2002, when I was 28 years old), I don't think I was ever told to come in for a blood test right after I'd missed my period. I'd gotten a very strong line on my home pregnancy test with him one day after my period was due, and if memory serves, when I called the ob's office to inform them that I was pregnant, I was just told to come for a check-up at - I think - 10 or 12 weeks. I remember them drawing blood at that time, but I am pretty sure hCG wasn't among the tests they ran. So I honestly have no idea what my hCG levels were at the start of that pregnancy.

When we had IUI #3 in April and my period never showed up when it was due on April 22nd, I peed on a stick on April 23rd; it was negative. I skipped the 24th and tried again on the 25th, since my period still hadn't come; that time, I got a barely-visible SUPER faint positive. I didn't know what to make of it. Like I said, the only other time I'd gotten pregnant, with Super Boy, the line was BOLD and it filled me with confidence that YES - I WAS PREGNANT. To have a super faint line 3 days after missing my period, I was a little apprehensive.

I called the fertility doctor's office on Monday, April 26th to get in for a blood test. They called me later that day to tell me that I was "technically" pregnant, with an hCG of 27.2, but it was unusual for the number to be so low 4 days after missing a period, and they told me not to get my hopes up, that it might not be a keeper. Still, I was told to hope it at least doubled by Wednesday, which is what they hoped to see.

On pins and needles for 48 hours, I went back in on Wednesday, April 28th for a second hCG test. When they called that afternoon, I was informed that I was DEFINITELY pregnant, because the hCG level had tripled in 2 days, to 99.6. I was ecstatic!

Until I went in for a 7-week ultrasound on May 14th to find that the pregnancy had indeed failed.

And then the kicker was that I had to start going back in for labs WEEKLY to make sure my hCG was FALLING, indicating a complete miscarriage. Let me tell you, it's a lot harder emotionally to wait for hCG to fall than it is to pray for it to go UP. After 2 weeks, I was considered no longer pregnant when my hCG was down to 1.1.

I did a lot of research about hCG levels after my first hCG test back in April. I had no idea what WAS considered a "normal" result for someone 4 days after missing their period. As it turns out, I found a wide range of what is considered "normal", all of which left me somewhat uneasy, because it did appear that my levels were low at both tests, despite having tripled from the first to the second. Some sources I found online seemed to indicate that when numbers are that low early on, it's often a sign that the pregnancy WILL end, and often in a blighted ovum, which is what ultimately happened with that pregnancy.

I will most certainly be paying attention to my hCG levels going forward if I should happen to get pregnant again. After what happened last time, I will want to see GOOD, STRONG levels, to put my mind at ease.

I hate being a slave to numbers, I really do. It was so much simpler to pee on a stick, see a line, and just sit back and wait out the rest of the first trimester. Having to wait for numbers - which can ether make your day or break your heart - stinks. Especially if you're an impatient person like me!

Baby dust to all of you,
SW

what's in a name

You might be wondering why I decided to name this new blog "My Incomplete Family." And I've got an answer for you. Sort of.

Naming a blog is a tough thing. For starters, there are soooooooooooo many other blogs in the world today that just finding a name that's available is tricky nowadays.

And then there's the matter of finding something catchy, something that gets to the heart of what you want to write about while being easy to remember. And clever - let's not forget clever.

Not that I'm saying that my blog name is clever. But it does get to the heart of what I want to write about, and it's shorter and easier to remember than some of the others I considered. Whoooeeeeeee... trust me on that!

I'm sure there are some who will say I'm being disrespectful or unappreciative of the family I DO have by calling it an "incomplete" family, the family I have been blessed with. And they would be mistaken.

Here's why I picked the title...

In a conversation I had with someone about our fertility struggles a year or two ago, the person I was talking with said that I should be grateful for the child I DO already have, as well as for my stepdaughter, and just accept that a second pregnancy wasn't in the cards for me.

I had to stop myself from responding impetuously and think through the right way to address that, because it IS something that has weighed on me at times.

Finally I figured out how to say what I really wanted to say in response to that. And it was this:

When you and your husband met and fell in love and decided to build a life together, and you were picturing the family you wanted together, how many children did it include? None? Just one? Or was it two? Or four? Or six?

Us wanting another child doesn't mean we don't appreciate the two we already have between us; if anything, going through so much to try to have another and not being able to make it happen has made us appreciate the miracles of Super Girl and Super Boy more than ever. It's just that we still hope to have the family we pictured ourselves having: which included me, Super Man, Super Girl, Super Boy -- and another child.

Before I met Super Man, I always wanted three or four kids of my own. After I met him, and he was older than me and already had Super Girl, I compromised with wanting just two together. We have one of the two -- and we're still praying for the other.

So, yes -- to me, our family still feels incomplete. Is it still a wonderful, beautiful, blessed family? Absolutely; there's no question about that. It's just that we're still one person short of the family we envisioned ourselves having, and that missing person is always on my mind.

of joy and sorrow

Have you ever read the book "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran? It's one of my favorites, in that it carries such simple, eloquent wisdom. If you haven't had a chance to acquaint yourself with it, I highly recommend you go get yourself a copy.

My first experience with this book came on our wedding day. Some very dear and wise friends of ours, a couple around my parents' age, had given it to us as part of our wedding gift.

Now, I'm an avid reader. I'm constantly reading, and often more than one - or two - things at a time. Books, magazines, poetry, all manner of things. It was inevitable that I would read this book sooner rather than later.

And when I did, I fell in love. Hard and fast.

While I haven't read it cover to cover in quite a while, I often find myself reaching for it when I'm struggling with something in my life. Surprisingly enough, it only occurred to me late last night to consult "The Prophet" again to seek some wisdom to help me cope with how I'm feeling right now about where we're at in our fertility treatments.

Of course, I found what I needed within its well-worn pages.

The part that comforted my heart and soul was in the pages about joy and sorrow in our lives. Here is an excerpt:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

It was like being struck by lightening, the truth of those words. All I had to recall was the utter despair and sadness I felt after four years of trying for a second baby and then the unmatchable, complete, absolute joy I felt when at last I heard the words "congratulations, you're pregnant" back in April.

Of course I was thrilled when I found out I was pregnant with Super Boy. I wanted him so much, with all my heart -- but he came so easily to me. We tried only three months for him. It was as though "of course I'm pregnant!" Only now, after struggling for so many years through so many dark moments do I realize just how truly lucky and blessed and fortunate we are that we conceived Super Boy at all, much less in three months. To hear that I was at last pregnant again, my joy was greater than ever before -- because my sadness has been greater than ever before.

On another note, for the longest time, I considered my infertility to be the glitch -- but what if the glitch was that I ever got pregnant with Super Boy? What if my body was meant to be barren, but by the grace of God I somehow got pregnant with Super Boy?

Here is another excerpt that hit home for me:

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Again: nothing can sum up how I feel better than this. When it comes to wanting another baby, and having the beautiful child I was so gratefully blessed with, my sorrow and my joy are inseparable. They are one and the same. What I want more than anything in the world has already given me unbelievable joy -- and unbelievable sorrow.

Dwelling on one is also dwelling on the other.

As I lay in bed after reading that, for the first time in a very long time, my soul felt calm. My mind felt quieted.

Reading that, and reacting to it in that way, makes me feel like I WILL survive this, no matter how the story ends. Because even if I will never hold another of my own newborn babies in my arms again, I've held my newborn baby in my arms, and I treasured that experience, and I know just how lucky and blessed I am to be a mother to him.

I send peace and light and love to all who are going through this struggle, too.

our story

I met my wonderful husband, hereafter referred to as Super Man, when I was 24 and married him when I was 26 (he - being 8 years older than I - was 32 and 34, respectively). Super Man had an adorable little girl, Super Girl, when I met him. She was the product of his earlier, brief marriage to a different woman. They shared custody of Super Girl, but she primarily lived with her mom and Super Man had her every other weekend. She was 2 when Super Man & I met and 4 when we got married, and she's now a lovely 14-year-old high school freshman.

When Super Girl was 6, and I was 28 and Super Man was 36, we started trying for what we thought of as our first child together, meaning "the first of more than one" that we planned to have together.

Within 3 months, I was pregnant with our amazing little miracle, Super Boy. He was born when Super Girl was 7, I was 29 and Super Man was 37. Super Boy was a fabulous baby (and toddler, and kid) -- easygoing, mellow, happy, sweet, funny, charismatic. It was a joy to become a full-fledged mommy with him as my teacher, especially after Super Girl did such a good job prepping me in my role as stepmom.

With Super Man being 8 years older than I, we knew we didn't want to wait a REALLY long time to try for another baby, but I was working full-time and we didn't want to have two in daycare for long, so we waited until Super Boy was almost 3, and I was 32 and Super Man was 40, to start trying to get pregnant again.

Three months went by. I won't lie: I fully expected I'd be pregnant by the end of Month #3, just like with Super Boy. My cycles were totally regular, every 28 days, I was ovulating on day 14 most months, and I had only taken hormonal birth control for a few months after Super Boy was born, so you'd think it would be fairly easy.

Little did I know I had many, many more months -- YEARS worth -- to go before I'd once again hear the words: YOU'RE PREGNANT.

When a year had gone by with no pregnancy, I was confused, a little concerned, and deeply unhappy. I mean, YES, I admit that every month wasn't our absolute best efforts -- after all, we had an active 3-year-old, a busy 10-year-old every other weekend, and two full time jobs! We weren't getting a whole lotta sleep, much less a whole lotta mommy-and-daddy time, so I wrote it off to all of THAT.

When the second year had gone by with no pregnancy, I was a LOT concerned and even more unhappy. This isn't how it was supposed to be! I was 34 and I was absolutely supposed to be pregnant by then! Literally EVERYONE I had been pregnant with the first time around had lapped me in pregnancy - at least once - and so added to all of the other things I felt, I had a deep sense of shame and embarrassment and inadequacy that we were unable to get this thing done like everyone else had. In a Reiki session that year, I could picture myself with a little girl, so clearly I'd have swore it was real. Despite my despair, I had hope.

I had talked to my regular ob/gyn about it, the one who delivered Super Boy (via C-section). She was convinced it was just timing. I asked her to check a few things -- my FSH, to make sure I was still ovulating since I have a family history of premature menopause on both sides of my family; my progesterone; my tubes; Super Man's swimmers. She did the blood tests to check the first two, and they were fine, so she felt we could hold off on the third. As for the fourth, dude hit it out of the park - there was absolutely nothing wrong with his boys.

During these first two years of trying to conceive, I was also dealing with a separate gynecologic situation: I kept having abnormal Pap smears (if you're interested - and you have, oh, 12 hours or so, you can read about it here, here, here, here, here and here). I was convinced that situation had something to do with me not getting pregnant, but who knows? Because even after it was all resolved, I wasn't getting pregnant.

Then the third year came and went. I was 35. It was obvious to me, if not to my doctor, that things were decidedly NOT okay and that timing couldn't be the issue because we had tried every kind of timing there was in the THREE YEARS we'd already been trying. Fortunately, due to an unanticipated job change on Super Man's part, we found ourselves with much better insurance, which thankfully covered testing and some treatment for infertility.

I had a hysterosalpingogram (HSG) to check my tubes (you can read about it here and here). They were clear. The radiologist did, however, notice a small abnormality in my uterus, which he figured was a fibroid, but not a large one. I gave it a few more months, and then I scheduled an appointment with a well-reputed Reproductive Medicine clinic in Milwaukee to seek specialized help.

I had my first appointment with the specialist in September of 2009. We reviewed my history: discussed my first pregnancy & delivery (picture-perfect pregnancy but 30-hour long delivery that ended in a C-section), reviewed all my test results (all normal), discussed the various things we'd tried in our efforts to conceive. Based on all of that, the specialist diagnosed us with "secondary infertility of unknown cause."

A part of me cringed to hear the official diagnosis of infertility, but a part of me felt relief to finally be taken seriously that SOMETHING IS WRONG after 3-1/2 years of trying without a single pregnancy to speak of.

I was started on Clomid, scheduled for a repeat FSH test to make sure I was still ovulating, and then went in for a mid-cycle ultrasound to see if it worked. Assuming it did, the plan was to start intrauterine insemination (IUI, also known as artificial insemination) that month.

The good news from the ultrasound was that my ovaries responded beautifully to the Clomid. The bad news was that after seeing it on ultrasound, the doctor felt the suspected fibroid in my uterus needed to be checked out and possibly removed before we started IUI. And there was another suspected fibroid in there, too.

I was less than thrilled. I was growing increasingly impatient. My 36th birthday was fast approaching.

All of that meant that there would be no IUI in September. Or in October, because the surgery couldn't be scheduled until late in October.

And I was even less thrilled when I ended up with a bad respiratory virus the week I was to have surgery, resulting in the surgery being delayed until November.

When at last the big day arrived, I was nervous. The only surgery I'd ever had was my C-section, and I was awake for that. The only sedation I'd ever had was for a colonoscopy in 2007. This was going to be a two-fer: surgery AND sedation. Thankfully, my anesthesiologist and I had a great talk beforehand and she understood all my concerns about the sedation (I have a GIGANTIC AWFUL EMBARRASSING vomit phobia issue). I ended up feeling absolutely fine when I came out of surgery. They removed both suspected fibroids - which turned out to be benign polyps - without incident, and I just had to wait one cycle to to start IUI.

Which puts us at December 2009. I took my Clomid, had another mid-cycle ultrasound that again showed I was responding beautifully to the meds, I had an hCG shot to force ovulation, and I went into IUI with the absolute highest of hopes. The two-week wait was torture. But I was optimistic!

And then my period showed up.

We went through the process again in January, minus the hCG shot - I wanted to try ovulating naturally and see if that made a difference. Again, I was crazy-hopeful and optimistic, as my specialist felt that I was really a great candidate for a successful IUI. Being somewhat superstitious, I also felt like it was perhaps auspicious that my 36th birthday at the end of January was going to coincide with the end of the cycle, when I could test to see if IUI #2 had worked. And...

Wait for it...

My period showed up.

Happy 36th Birthday.

uuuuuuuggggggghhhhhhhhhh

I was frustrated. I was even more frustrated that certain events beyond our control meant that trying IUI again in February would be a waste of our time due to our stress levels. Instead, we decided that I'd still take Clomid, but we'd just try on our own and see if that would do the trick. Except that I ended up having a bad reaction to the Clomid on day 3 of 5, in the form of disturbing visual problems, which meant I was immediately pulled from the meds for that month (and all eternity thereafter). We still tried on our own that month, but our efforts failed.

I was discouraged. I was blue. I was feeling old. And I was feeling like the Universe was totally against us. Or at least against me, anyway.

Given my state of mind - not to mention the chaotic schedule Super Man had in the month of March - we opted to take a breather that month and regroup.

Which brings me to April 2010, and IUI #3.

While I continued to feel hopeful and optimistic, I was also cautious and weary. I had to force myself to just take it all as it came. I tried a new medication, Femara (letrazole), which is typically used to treat estrogen-related breast cancer but was found to have a very strong fertility side effect, which makes it a good choice treatment when Clomid isn't an option. I tolerated it beautifully, and my mid-cycle ultrasound showed that it had worked well for me. I waited to get my positive ovulation test and we scheduled our IUI for the following day.

Two weeks went by. My breasts felt huge and tender. I was nauseous and exhausted.

I felt pregnant.

My period didn't show up on the day it was due (my cycles are like clockwork, every 28 days). I took a test the day after, but it was negative. I waited 2 days and took another test. This time I got a very, very faint line. But... with Super Boy I had a BOLD line - there was no question I was pregnant. I was nervous.

I called my specialist the next day and asked them to order a blood test. I went to the lab, holding my breath, praying, praying, praying.

They called me that afternoon. "Technically," I was pregnant -- anything over 5 hCG is a positive, and mine was at 27. "HOWEVER"... I was 4 days late for my period, and it was 18 days post-IUI. My hCG should've been higher at that point. They told me not to get my hopes up, and to come back in 2 days to re-test.

I held my breath and prayed for 2 straight days. I went back on 4/28/10 for my blood draw, and waited on pins and needles for the nurse to call me with the results.

I had just come home from the grocery store with Super Boy when the phone rang. My heart was beating frantically. And that was when I heard the words I'd waited exactly 4 long years to hear:

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'RE PREGNANT!!

Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh, those words were so sweet! I paused, breathless, for a fraction of a second before I started crying, and laughing, asking "are you sure?? FOR SURE???" My hCG had tripled in those 2 days, indicating that all was progressing.

I was officially pregnant, at long last.

I know there are some women who don't get that jazzed up over pregnancy -- their own or anyone else's. I'm not one of those women.

The moment I heard those sweet and long-awaited words, I was all in. I was pregnant. I was having a baby. We were expanding our family. There was no kind of or sort of or maybe -- I was 200% in it, no going back.

My official due date was 1/1/11. Super Man and I thought that was incredibly special, and so symbolic: a wonderful new start to a brand new year. The reality is that I probably would've had a scheduled C-section a few weeks earlier, but that's beside the point. And, best of all, I'd be delivering before my 37th birthday.

I checked Super Boy's old car seats to see if they were still usable. I started looking at summer maternity clothes, as my maternity wardrobe from 2002-2003 was all cold-weather clothes, with that pregnancy being from late August to late May. I started looking at strollers online. I knitted two baby hats, something I'd never done before. I was about to start on a sweater. I decided to make a blanket with some super soft yarn I'd found in my stash. I was pregnant.

As the days passed, I felt more and more sick to my stomach (a good thing!), and my mind was completely preoccupied with the baby growing in my belly. Our whole family was walking on air at the long-awaited news. Super Boy was super excited to be a big brother, Super Girl was hoping it was triplets (!!!), my mom was already looking at baby girl clothes, and all our parents were just thrilled and happy for the news to finally arrive.

The weeks passed. I continued to feel nauseous and tired, and my breasts still killed. We had scheduled a 7-week ultrasound with my fertility specialist for 05/14/10; if all checked out there, I'd transfer back to my regular ob/gyn for the remainder of the pregnancy. I had the date in my calendar in red, circled with a heart, and I could not wait to go and see my little baby growing, to see a heartbeat.

The day of the ultrasound, Super Man had big meetings and felt bad that he couldn't come with, but neither of us suspected any problems, so we didn't think too much about it. I went to the clinic with a huge smile on my face, thrilled to finally see the proof that IUI #3 had worked. As I waited to be called back, I worked on knitting my baby blanket in the waiting room.

At last, I was called. I went back with a spring in my step, barely containing my excitement. The doctor was asking how I'd been feeling (answer: pregnant!), if I'd had any spotting or cramping (answer: none!), and he couldn't help but smile for how excited I was. He turned the monitor towards me and started the intravaginal ultrasound.

He found the sac immediately.

My heart sank. Because I knew it the second I saw it.

It didn't look the way it was supposed to look. It was just a circle. It housed nothing.

I could barely speak the words, "This isn't what we're supposed to be seeing, is it?"

"Unfortunately, no. I just want to see if there's another fertilized egg growing elsewhere..."

My heart was pounding. My eyes darted frantically around the screen, praying that we would find another with a healthy baby growing in it.

We didn't.

And just like that, I was no longer pregnant.

I cried. I sobbed. I was so, so sad. I felt duped, embarrassed, furious, anguished. Numb.

And to top it off, I was alone.

The doctor left the room while I dressed and took a moment to try to call Super Man. I tried; he didn't answer. I tried again; he still didn't answer. Angry, heart-broken and frustrated, I called my mom. We cried. I could barely move.

When the doctor came back for me, we went to another room to talk. He shared his condolences, but told me not to give up. While the lost pregnancy didn't feel like a good thing right that second, it WAS actually a good thing: We now knew I could get pregnant. We had done it. After four solid years of no pregnancy, I had finally gotten pregnant.

We had the right equation, the right components. We just had to wait for the pregnancy to miscarry and try again.

I was devastated. I had never had a miscarriage to my knowledge, and I never in a million years expected to have a miscarriage. It was stupid to be surprised by it, in retrospect. After all, I was 29 when I had Super Boy and I'm 36 now. Miscarriage rates are higher at my age. Even the doctor said that he's not surprised by this occurrence of blighted ovum because of my age -- the quality of some portion of my eggs is less than ideal, and it was a genetic glitch that caused the pregnancy to stop.

Despite that, he felt very optimistic that we could get me pregnant again and still have the desired outcome: a healthy baby.

My miscarriage began the following day, entirely on its own. I couldn't decide whether to be happy that I never had any spotting or cramping prior to finding out that I was no longer pregnant or whether I was glad I knew beforehand. I suppose I'm glad I knew before the miscarriage started, because I would've been completely freaking out the other way. I was already freaking out, but it could've been worse.

Still, it was bad. Not "the worst thing anyone has ever gone through" kind of bad, but bad. I was in bed for days. My bleeding thankfully never got too bad or crossed over into dangerous territory, and I was thankful for that. After about 5 days, it was mostly over.

Physically, at least.

Mentally, I was a mess.

I couldn't seem to stop crying. I felt totally and completely alone, for a few different reasons. I was utterly and completely decimated. I'm sure it didn't help that my hCG level took a few weeks to drop back down to zero.

The kicker was that Super Boy's birthday was the following weekend, so I couldn't afford to indulge my desire to stay in bed for the rest of my life. I could barely indulge it for a week. In retrospect, I'm glad I couldn't do what my bruised heart wanted to do. I'm glad my son's miraculous existence and my fervent desire to honor the incredibly special day of his birth forced me to get up, shower, and go about the business of something normal in my life. That much, I could do.

Each day was fractionally better than the one before it. Each week got a little easier to put behind me. The months passed; life returned to normal, mostly. But make no mistake: Even now, nearly 4 months later, I still know exactly how many weeks pregnant I'd have been now if the pregnancy hadn't stopped. (I'd have been 23 weeks pregnant this Friday.) No matter how much I've healed in that time, there is some part of me that is irreparably broken by that loss.

Anyway...

I had to wait for my period to return after the miscarriage, which it did in June. And then my specialist wanted me to wait through another full cycle before we resumed IUI again. As always, my periods came every 28 days, even after the miscarriage.

While I waited to get through the second cycle, I realized that it seemed like EVERYONE ELSE IN THE MILWAUKEE AREA WAS PREGNANT EXCEPT ME. I literally could not go ANYWHERE without running into at least one obviously pregnant person. I spent the entire month grinding my teeth in frustration.

After my second post-miscarriage period came in July, I notified the doctor that I was good to go. We were cleared to restart IUI. I took my Femara again, peed on sticks again, got my positive ovulation test... and then we couldn't make IUI work with Super Man's schedule that day. We thought we'd just try on our own instead, since I'd already taken the medication... but my dad and stepmom were at our house for a few days, and on THE day we needed to either do IUI or have sex. Needless to say, it was a little too much pressure. July was lost.

I cried. I was so frustrated and angry to have had to wait 2 months to get back on track, to finally get cleared to try again, and to have taken the fertility meds only to get shut down on the IUI due to bad timing. It wasn't a good few days.

I sat down with Super Man and had a major heart-to-heart. I told him that I felt like he wasn't investing himself in this. And while he doesn't have to be there for MY part of IUI, he DOES have to be there for HIS part. Without his part, there can be no my part. And I explained that I don't want to keep taking medication that messes with my body & my hormones for no reason -- if I'm going to take it, we'd better be doing IUI. For some reason, he seemed to think that the window of opportunity was much larger than it actually is - he simply didn't understand how critical the timing of things really is. He promised me he'd do his best to keep the next ovulation week as open as he could.

Which brought us to August. Once again, I took my Femara, peed on sticks, waited for the smiley face. It came on Day 14, we had IUI on Day 15...

And now we wait.

If I haven't gotten my period by 9/7, I will be testing on 9/8.

I can't help but be hopeful. IUI #3 worked with all these same components. I am praying fervently, desperately, humbly that IUI #4 will be The One.

If it's not, we have 2 IUIs left.

We're not pursuing in vitro (insurance doesn't cover it and we can't justify going broke and putting ourselves in financial jeopardy to pursue it).

We're not pursuing adoption (I would under other circumstances, but at Super Man's age, he can't see doing it).

For the record, if we didn't have Super Boy, we would absolutely be pursuing one or both of those options, but we do have one miracle child together, and we both feel blessed to have him.

So, if these final IUIs don't work, then we're done.

~~~~

And I think I'll stop there, for now. Between this post and all its links to my posts about the various subjects on my Average Everyday Super Woman blog, I figure that will occupy the readers of this blog for a few hours, at least.

Until next time...