babylust

tomorrow

Tomorrow morning, John and I go for our first appointment with our RE (reproductive endocrinologist). Keep your fingers crossed that we come away with a plan. I'll post details about the appointment tomorrow.

superstar

This may be the most shallow entry I post in this space, but I have to acknowledge it: pregnant celebrities drive me nuts. I mean really crazy. Their pictures and the headlines accompanying them are everywhere—the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bookstore, the internet…you name it, and they are there. Gwyneth Paltrow. Brooke Shields. Gwen Stefani. Possibly Demi Moore. Don’t even get me started on the most irritating of all—Angelina Jolie and, of course, Katie Holmes. Finally, let us not forget the new moms Brittney Spears and Jennifer Garner.

It’s not that I wish these women any ill will. Or that I think they don’t deserve to be pregnant and have healthy pregnancies and children. It just seems so easy for them, and so unfair. The longer I live in the grief of pregnancy loss, the more I am aware of the devastation of infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth. I feel like I come across a woman nearly every day that has experienced tremendous sadness and disappointment in her desire to be a mother.

Of course, as it turns out, all superstars don’t have it so lucky--they are human, and experience tragedy and misfortune, just like the rest of us. Aliza Sherman, author of the weblog babyfruit, has posted a list of celebrities who have experienced miscarriage. I think I feel pretty much the same way as one woman who posted a comment after reading this list:

“I am embrasses (sic) by how gripped I was by that list. I had a miscarriage a few months ago, and it makes me feel like part of a painful secret society.”

reminders

Reminders of my pregnancy losses seem to follow me wherever I go.

On Friday, I attended a quarterly meeting for a group I’m involved in through work. I came into the meeting with my losses fresh in my mind after a session with my therapist. Overall, while I was feeling a bit emotional, I was also feeling pretty stable and grounded. While my sadness is still ever-present, I no longer feel like it is constantly crushing me. I think the grief work I’m doing is really helping me, and I’m beginning to feel more like my old self again. And then I entered the meeting. A fellow group member had arrived before me. Due to their jobs, she and her husband had been living apart during the week for quite a while. She recently accepted a new position that lets them live together full-time, and I congratulated her on this fortunate change. She then proceeded to gush that she and her husband were also expecting, that they were due in June, that they were finding out the next week the gender of the baby. I was somewhat in shock, and as her news sunk in (that I was due in June, that I should be giving birth in just over 4 months, that even though John and I wanted the surprise, we could already know whether our baby was a boy or girl), I completely lost it and rushed out of the room with tears streaming down my face. I stayed in the restroom for a few minutes, trying to clean up my face, but the tears just wouldn’t stop coming. I went into the office of another group member who works at the meeting spot, and told her what was happening, and tried to figure out whether I could pull myself together, or whether I needed to just go home. I decided to stay—the work we had to do was really important, and I wanted to be a part of it. However, I felt that I needed to explain myself a little bit so I wouldn’t have to sit in silence (or in tears) as the inevitable pregnancy and baby comments continued throughout the day. I made my way out to the meeting room and quickly told the small group why I had just dissolved into a puddle of tears—that I had my third miscarriage just before Christmas and that I had also been pregnant earlier in the year with a baby that would have been due in June. The group quickly proceeded to tell me how sorry they were. I gently said thank you, but that I didn’t share my experience for sympathy from the group, and that I really didn’t want to talk about it (that would have most certainly led to more tears). I felt really uncomfortable sharing this personal experience with the group, even though it was a small group I know most of the members pretty well. I didn’t want to turn the attention to me, but I felt that I had to explain where I was to make it through the meeting. And do you know what? Telling my story helped. I was able to pull myself together and get on with our work. Through the entire meeting, not one single word was mentioned about pregnancy. I wish I could have been able to sit through that meeting, no matter what pregnancy details might come up, and just be okay. But I couldn’t. Maybe it means I’m a wimp, or that I’m too sensitive. That’s just who I am. The situation wasn’t ideal, and it certainly wasn’t the most graceful thing I have ever done, but it did the trick.

Just a bit more about this…when I shared my story, tears welled up in the expectant mother’s eyes, and she told us how long it had taken her to get pregnant, that she knows how fragile of a process pregnancy is. I’m not sure what exactly took place on her journey to pregnancy—perhaps she has experienced losses as well—but she was obviously affected by what I said. I hope I made it clear to her that I wish her the best for a smooth, healthy pregnancy and a sweet baby in her arms sometime in June. I didn’t want to take away any of her joy—I just didn’t know what else to do.

stillness

Tonight, I went to my first yoga class in several months. I stopped going in the late summer because I had developed some discomfort in my upper back that seemed to be irritated by my practice. In an attempt to reconnect with my body and spirit, which I so badly needed, I did attend one session a few weeks after the miscarriage in October. Since then, I hadn’t gone back. I stayed away partly because of the searing pain in my back, and partly because there was a perky pregnant woman who was chattering away about her pregnancy before the class began. Throughout that whole class, all I could think about was that she was pregnant and that I wasn’t. I couldn’t stop glancing at her, watching her move into the poses, and trying to determine how far along she was by the size of her small but growing belly. My breath was tight and constricted. My balance was off. I choked back tears throughout the entire class. I felt so angry that this woman was there. In my head, my voice was screaming, “Why isn’t she in a prenatal class? She can’t even do half of the postures!” It wasn’t exactly the soothing, centering, meditative effect I had been looking for. I wasn’t comfortable feeling the anger surging inside me. Rationally, I knew that there was no reason to be angry with this woman, that she had every much as right to be there as I did. But grief isn’t rational.

Tonight’s class was so different, and it was exactly what I needed. I realized that although I feel like I’ve been doing a good job of confronting my grief lately, I haven’t really been present with it, letting it wash over me without trying to swim away, letting the tears flow until there were no more tears. In fact, during the past month, I haven’t really been still at all. I’ve been busy—writing, painting, cleaning, thinking. But I haven’t let myself just be.

My grief first found me tonight near the end of class, as Kelly (the most amazing yoga teacher ever) led us into a twist. I think it took me until then to clear my mind, and to be aware of simply where I was in that moment. Then the tears started, and an ache enveloped my heart. I stayed with my sadness, observing it through the remaining postures of class, throughout deep relaxation. The sadness didn’t crush me; the weight wasn’t unbearable. And I realized that being there with my grief wasn’t that bad—that it is just a part of who I am, that I am strong enough to embrace it.

Kelly typically opens and closes class with chanting, but tonight’s closing was different than anything I have experienced. She instructed us to chant “Om” three times, and to begin and end with the comfort and length of our own breath, to not try to be in synch with others in the class and to proceed at our own pace. One voice after another filled the room. For a time we were there together, then some voices faded, while others carried on. When the last chants of the first “Om” were whispering to a close, other voices swelled, strong with a new breath. This continued for three long breaths of chanting. I felt enveloped by the energy of my classmates around me. My tears flowed again, but this time, it was different.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around exactly what I experienced and why it affected me so deeply. I think I simply felt infused with the energy in the room, I felt connected to the world and a greater presence through those around me. I felt the waves emotions inside of me mirrored by the swelling and fading of voices in the room. I felt really, really alive.

I hope I can keep my heart open. I hope I can continue to be present in the stillness.

change of plans

I heard back from my OB/GYN's office today. They scheduled me for the HSG next Weds, Feb 1. I was worried that I wouldn't be finished with my appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist (RE) by the time I was to arrive for the test, so I called the clinic to check. They suggested that I cancel the HSG for now and wait to talk to the RE before I had the test done. The nurse thought that the RE would probably want to do the test himself, instead of just getting the results from the test done by another doctor. The nurse thought I would have the test next Thursday or Friday. I'm really looking forward to my appointment.

digging deeper

During my first session with my grief counselor, she asked me to start thinking about what my losses mean to me. Initially, I was a bit puzzled. It seemed so obvious—I had lost three pregnancies, and my hopes, dreams, and plans for three children.  I lost three babies that were so badly wanted—three babies that I would never hold in my arms.

Even this first conclusion may seem incomprehensible, and even a little overly dramatic to anyone who has not known the tragedy of miscarriage. I believe that my experiences are similar to those of other women who have lost pregnancies, but of course, I am only writing from my own perspective. What I can say is that from the first moment I knew I was pregnant, there was an attachment to the life growing inside of me. In that instant, my life changed forever. Not only was I thinking of how the pregnancy was affecting my life in the present, but every single thought about the future took into consideration that there was a baby growing in my body, that I would be a parent in 9 months. In fact, in some ways, I already felt like a parent. And that was with an unplanned pregnancy.

I hadn’t thought too much about having kids until I became pregnant for the first time. I feel it’s safe to say that I devoted much more time and energy thinking about how to not become pregnant. I knew that I wanted kids some day, but that’s about as far as I had gotten. After my first pregnancy and miscarriage, having a child was almost a preoccupation. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t rushing out to get pregnant again right away, but the desire for a baby never left, not for a second.

With my second and third pregnancies, I had been experiencing serious babylust for over 3 years. John and I were married, and we decided to have kids sooner rather than later. I bought lots of books, eager to learn how to prepare my body and spirit for pregnancy and motherhood. I started charting my cycles. I had a private lesson with my yoga teacher to develop a practice that would provide strength for the tremendous feat ahead. I ate organically and avoided mercury-loaded fish. John and I talked about childcare and if one of us could stay home. We got a little more serious about paying off our debt. I thought about whether or not to buy any new clothes for the upcoming season, wondering if they would still fit. The list goes on and on…Add all of that planning to the love, anticipation, and focus that I described experiencing with my first pregnancy, and I hope you can understand the attachment to, and therefore devastation by the loss of my second and third pregnancies.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been journaling about what I wrote above, about what I immediately identified with when my therapist asked me to think about my losses. I was a bit surprised when several other realizations came to the surface. Here are a few of them:

I feel like I have lost confidence in my body. At times I feel like my body has failed me. I have realized how much of my sense of womanhood has been defined by the anticipation and expectation that I would give birth and be a mother. I wonder if I will ever be able to carry and deliver my own healthy child, if I will ever be able to breastfeed my baby.

I feel like I will never be able to enjoy pregnancy—that every moment of a future pregnancy will be filled with panic and worry, and that I’ll never be able to experience the joyful anticipation of my child. While I want to be pregnant again and have a baby, I’m terrified of the anxiety I know I will experience.

I feel like I have completely lost control of my body, of my life, of what lies ahead. I feel like what I had envisioned for John and myself in the near and distant future has been completely derailed. I feel like I have to start making plans all over again. (On a side note, I am aware that I never really had control over any of these things in the first place—I just felt like I did.)

I used to feel certain that things happen for a reason. Sometimes I still do. But recently, I’ve begun to wonder if we just find these reasons to reassure ourselves that the pain and sadness we all experience isn’t for nothing. Either way, I know that there are lessons in all of these losses. I will find new ways and reasons to love myself and to feel confident about who I am. I will find new ways to define myself. I will dream, make more plans, and discover new passions. I will be a mother one way or another.

light is hope

I almost feel like I’ve been walking in circles, like I’m back where I started. I felt so sad all day, and my mood was matched by the cold, grey, rainy day. All day, I couldn’t stop thinking about my losses--that I could be 4 ½ months pregnant with the baby I miscarried in October or 9 weeks along with my most recent pregnancy. My period is a constant reminder of what I don’t have right now. Actually, it feels like everywhere I looked today, I was reminded of my losses. I feel sad and angry and hopeless.

I know that grief is a process, that it is normal to have good days and bad days, that not nearly enough time has passed to ease the ache in my heart. I know that while I’ll always mourn these losses, there will be a time when I am not consumed by my sorrow.

On December 21, the Winter Solstice, I received the devastating news that I would miscarry. The next day, I called my acupuncturist to schedule a treatment and to ask her about the effect the herbs I had been taking may have on my body processing the miscarriage. What she said to me was very powerful, and it brought me peace. I’d like to share it here.

Yesterday was the darkest day of the year; the sun blessed us for the fewer hours yesterday than on any other day of the year. Today gave us more light. Each day that passes will provide us with more light and warmth. Light is hope. Keep hoping.

cycles

Today, I woke with strong cramps that signaled the start of a new cycle. I have been expecting my period—I’ve been spotting for the last 5 days. While I am aware that the first cycle after a miscarriage is often irregular, this one was not too different from the patterns I’ve noticed in the previous cycles I’ve been charting.  I consistently spot before my period, and I’ve had spotting from about 7 DPO (days past ovulation) with every pregnancy. I’m really starting to wonder if I have low progesterone in my luteal phase, which may be causing my early miscarriages. After the second miscarriage, I asked my OB/GYN if I could get my progesterone checked after ovulation to determine if this is an issue for me. She told me that she typically does not test for progesterone until a woman becomes pregnant, and that as soon as I get a positive HPT (home pregnancy test), I should come into the office to confirm the pregnancy with a blood test and have my progesterone level checked at that time, which I did. My progesterone level was 11.8, which she said was normal for an early pregnancy where the HCG (pregnancy hormone) levels were not rising as expected. I’m going to be more assertive in asking for my levels to be checked this cycle. If my progesterone level is causing a problem, I’d like to know before I’m pregnant again.

Tomorrow, I’ll call and schedule the HSG, which I wrote about in my last post.

I’m really looking forward to my appointment on February 1^st. Hopefully, I will have some answers soon.

testing….1-2-3…testing…

Today, I came home to a patient pamphlet from the Richmond Center for Fertility and Endocrinology, reminding me of my first appointment on February 1^st. They sent the information in a very discreet package, with the name of the clinic spelled out in 36 font on the side opposite the address. I guess it’s a good thing I started telling my story here—I feel like everyone in the neighborhood knows now. I tell you, there’s something to be said for a plain white envelope.

I also have an appointment with the Fertility Institute of Virginia on March 13. The doctor at this clinic has come highly recommended, but since it took over 2 months to get an appointment, I thought I would try the other clinic in town. I’m still not sure if I will cancel one or the other of the appointments. I may meet with both doctors and see which one I like best.

My OB/GYN has asked me to schedule an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG) when my period arrives. During this test, dye will be injected through my cervix to allow for an x-ray of my uterus and fallopian tubes to be made. My doctor will basically be testing for any structural abnormalities. She has told me that she suspects that the results will be normal, and that it is just the next in a series of tests.

I’ve already had the following tests done, and results were within normal limits:

Lupus Anticoagulant Reflex

Anticardiolipin AB, IgG/IgM

Antinuclear Antibodies Direct

Hemoglobin

TSH

Prolactin

I’ll try to post links so that you can see what each of these tests is for, but for now, I’m too sleepy…

a day without tears

Today was the first day since the last miscarriage that I haven’t cried at all. Not one tear. I made it through an entire day at work without breaking into sobs. This is quite an accomplishment. One step at a time.

Yesterday, for the first time, I really felt like I would be okay. Don’t get me wrong. I am still enveloped in sadness; I am still deep in the midst of my grief. But yesterday, I saw a ray of sunlight.

I mentioned in my post yesterday that I am seeing a grief counselor. I told her that already, even though I have experienced these devastating losses, even though I have seen what I feel like are the darkest of days, I have found gifts in my grief. What else can I do? I have always been able to learn from my emotions—especially the very painful ones. My miscarriages have taught me so much about myself already. Now, I am standing with an open heart, peering deep into my soul to see what else lies buried in the darkness, reaching towards the light.

What have I gained? A deeper, more meaningful partnership with my husband, my partner. Profound intimacy with the love of my life. Who can complain about a stronger marriage? I feel like I’m discovering for the first time what is really important to me, what really matters, where I want to direct my energy. I feel like I have a confidence in myself that I have never known. I feel like my experience is valid, like my story deserves to be told. I feel like a survivor. I’m no longer afraid of my own pain. I’m no longer afraid of the pain of others.

As I said, my grief isn’t anywhere near over. I’m right in the thick of it. I’m still in the darkest time of my life. But I do see the sun filtering through the clouds.