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...