Resentment Addendum

If only all problems could be solved by whining about them on a blog.  Wouldn’t the world be a much lovelier place?  I mean, sure, the blogosphere would be a little gloomier for it, but me and my Eeyore self wouldn’t really mind.  Who wants to read about others’ happiness anyways?

Well, shit.  Yea.  If you don’t want to read happy you might want to stop here…

Less than 24 hours after my last post the mister and I piled into the car for another sleepy, early morning trek to the perinatal center.  (Well, another for me, a first for him.  Thanks to the number of appointments I have, the distance they are from our house, and the state of medical/family leave in this grand country of ours the mister has never been able to come with me to the MFM.  Yesterday he said “screw it” and took some of the precious, precious vacation time he’d been saving for post-baby to come along to my appointment.)

The drive to the perinatal center takes about the same amount of time as the drive to the RE did (an hour, give or take), of which the initial half hour is the exact same drive.  I know the drive well.  Every bump, turn, hamlet (yes, in New York we have hamlets), and village.  I like the drive to the MFM better, though, because the last 10 minutes is interstate highway, as opposed to the sleepy country roads that comprise the rest of the drive there and the entire drive to the RE.  There’s something about flying down the highway, if even for a few exits, that makes you feel like you’re making better progress than you would be were you on a country road.  For that last ten minutes I open the windows, inhale the big-rig fumes, and celebrate being almost there.

Yesterday, amidst said celebration, with the city skyline just popping into view, I let out a simple, “Woah!”  The mister looked at me puzzled and I explained, “Holy crap, now THAT was one heck of a kick!  It felt like my abdomen was exploding from all directions at once!”  We chuckled, I took a few deep breaths, and, one hand still planted firmly on the wheel, I felt around the upper right side of my abdomen where the little man’s been parking his head as of late.  A quick inspection confirmed a round, hard mass still lodged in it’s usual location.  As I thanked him for reminding me he’s still there, I accepted the fact that, of course, he was still breech.  The head was still where it always was.  Tucked under my ribs, using the placenta as a pillow.

Less than 30 minutes later – post-weigh-in, post-BP, post-pee-in-cup – the NST room nurse did my usual fluid check ultrasound.  She put the wand to his “head,” but there was no head – just a nice, plump bottom.  We looked at each other in disbelief.  She zipped the transducer down, down, down, and, sure enough, there he was.  Head.  Down.  I looked at the mister and said in my crankiest voice, “So, are you telling me, all I had to do this entire time was bring you along and he’d flip?”  We laughed, and a smile went across my face that I’ve been unable to remove ever since.

The c-section remains scheduled so that I won’t lose my surgical slot if he flips back around, but other than that, we’re cleared for a vaginal delivery with induction sometime in the 39th week.  It’s crazy how much one little flip has impacted my psyche.  I’m not going to get arrogant and assume that things will go remotely as planned.  The specter of a c-section still looms, especially if we induce.  And, he could very well decide to flip back over next time I’m barreling down the highway.  But, just having the knowledge that, in this moment, I get to try to have a chance at labor.  That’s huge.

And, to all of you who wrote in response to my last post – thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I can’t tell you how comforting all of your words were, especially coming on the heels of so much stress and worry about how my reaction to the c-section news was something too taboo to share in a space like this.  I’m constantly amazed by the strength and compassion you each exhibit.  And, damn, there I go making this a happy blog post!  <sniff sniff> Thanks everyone!

Resentment

Here’s the biggest thing I wasn’t prepared for when it comes to pregnancy after infertility.  Sometimes, while pregnant, you get depressed.  You worry, you cry, you panic.  That I was prepared for.  But the self-loathing and shame that can result from those worries and tears and panics?  Not so much.  I’m not going to lie.  I’m a total mess right now.  And, I think it’s been made worse by the fact that I haven’t felt like I could write it here.  I haven’t felt I could express it anywhere.  Not to friends, not to my husband, not to my therapist.  I hate myself and who I am right now, and not the least of which because I know I should be better, I should cope better, I should be grateful.

This little man’s been breech at every. single. visit. since the NT scan at 13-some weeks.  I was proud of myself for not worrying too much about it, because I knew it wasn’t a cause for concern until some far off, distant “later.”  It appears later is here.  Or, so it would seem from the simple one-page letter I unexpectedly got in the mail on Saturday telling me the date and time of my c-section.  The date and time of my son’s birth.

Since “the letter” I’ve been a disaster.  I cried for most of the rest of Saturday, managing to haul myself out for a few hours that night for a going away party for one of my closest friends here who will be moving to the other side of the country in a few short days.  Sunday I struggled to hold it together, but was still mostly in a daze.  Monday found me losing all composure throughout my morning ultrasound, non-stress test, and consult, and going through the motions of the rest of my workday, only to come home and snap.  I stayed awake long enough to do my 7:20pm lovenox injection, before going to sleep without dinner, without stopping the tears, without emerging from the darkness that had become my new mode of being.  I do remember my husband begging me to reassure him that I wasn’t thinking of “doing anything stupid” before I stumbled up to bed.  I remember waking 12 hours later, remembering the look in his eyes as he asked it, and starting to cry again.

I feel trapped between two worlds right now.  The “what should be’s” and the “what is,” the “I know better’s” and the “I’m tired of knowing better’s,” the “gratefulness” and the “jealousy.”

When I try to be rational, I eek out the following:

  • Holy shit I’m pregnant.  Really, REALLY pregnant.  Like, I may very well get to meet this child pregnant.
  • There is a nursery.  In our house.
  • You’ve got bigger things to worry about.  Like him surviving you coming off your meds.  Like him surviving.  Period.
  • The method of his delivery doesn’t matter, just that he gets here safely.
  • Seriously, read the above, you know better you fucking twat.

But, 99% of the time my thoughts are more of the variety of:

  • I’m tired of being understanding.  I’m tired of accepting what life throw’s at me.
  • I’m done with being the minority.  The 1.5% of births from IVF in the country.  The 2-4% of the general population with antiphospholipid syndrome.  The 1-3% of women who have scheduled C-sections due to a breech presentation.  The list goes on.  I’m a walking, talking ball of “This is SO UNFAIR!” right now.
  • I’m over surgery.  The C-section will be my 6th in 4 years.  Everyone assumes I’m upset because I’m “scared” of surgery.  No, I know surgery intimately by this point.  There is no fear there.  Just a lot of anger.  And, a lot of knowledge of what recovery will look like and physically and mentally feel like (especially given how much my body detests analgesics).
  • I’m sad I’ll never get to experience what my mom did to bring me into this world.  The only labor pains I’ll ever know are those that accompanied my three miscarriages.  I’ll never have the chance to turn that pain to a positive in my mind.  I needed that chance, I’ve been longing for that chance.
  • I feel robbed.  It’s not so much that I feel vaginal delivery is “normal,” but it’s certainly less invasive.  My child was conceived in a petri dish, this pregnancy has been sustained by tons and tons of drugs, procedures, and doctor’s visits, and now the birth will be more of the same.  It will be a timed transaction – place, date, and time preset by the convenience of my medical providers.  It will be another procedure written in my calendar.
  • I’m sick of an entirely new set of reminders from the fertile masses that I’m different.  Each well-meaning moron that tells me, “Labor isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” or “you can always VBAC with your next one,” or “it won’t matter once he’s in your arms,” leads me one step closer to homicide.  I knew I would kick labor’s ass, and I’ve been longing for the opportunity to for 5 years.  I have the pain tolerance of an ox, and I’m ready to have it come into play when something positive can come from it.  And, speaking of “the next child” just reminds me that may likely never happen.
  • While I’m not scared of surgery, I am scared of the possible health implications.  Since I continually win the medical complication lottery (seriously, who gets diagnosed with 6 different diseases/conditions all before they’re 30?), I find myself certain that this C will result in endometriosis adhesions growing out of my uterus.  Yes, it happens.  Or that major abdominal surgery will set off my clotting disorder.  Or my yet-to-be-determined spondyloarthritic disease.  Or that, when you’re as infertile as I am, more scarring in the uterine cavity is never a good thing.  Especially when the combo of endometriosis and a clotting issue mean you’re in for a lot more laparoscopies down the road.
  • I’m frustrated that this birth feels like just another in a long line of confrontations with unhelpful, risk-averse, blanket statement doctors.  I haven’t seen an MD since February, and my case hasn’t been looked at in all that time.  (And, clearly, a lot has changed since then.)  Yet, the NPs and midwives continue this game of telephone.  Gathering my questions, presenting them to “some doctor” (one who may or may not have ever met me), and then coming back in the room and poorly communicating their answers.  For 6 months I’ve been told it would be dangerous for me to remain pregnant past 39 weeks, but now that they must schedule a c-section it’s been scheduled for nearly 40 weeks.  The NPs helpful response?  “Well, we’d sure like to do it sooner, but we don’t have any surgical availability.”  After one doctor told me in February that my lovenox was the only thing sustaining this pregnancy, now they’re taking me off of it without a second thought on Monday.  No discussions, no explanations, just a simple, “Your chart says for you to stop at 36 weeks.”  And, to my question of whether or not we could try an external cephalic version to flip him?  The friendly nurse replies, “Absolutely not.  Not with your history!” Oddly, that’s not remotely OK, but delaying delivery and taking me off my meds is totally fine.  This is not how I pictured my end of pregnancy care.
  • And, I’m angry that this is the end of the line.  I want to meet him more than anything, but I’m not ready to be once again un-pregnant.  Aside from the fact that I have physically felt the best I have felt in 10 years during this pregnancy, I’m also not ready to let go of him.  Especially since I’ve wasted so much time lately hating each kick that reminds me he is breech.  Especially since the medical system has been the only one to weigh in on when he arrives.

Clearly, one list is much longer than the other, but that doesn’t mean that the first list isn’t on my mind.  It is.  Constantly.  And, it’s why I’m such a mess.  Where do I get off feeling like I have any right to be upset over a c-section?  I know better.  I mean, I know better women than I who just lost wanted pregnancies, who failed yet another cycle, who’ve moved on to a life sans children, who’ve suffered more heartache and pain than anyone should ever endure.  Yet these past few days have sunk me lower than I’ve been since the death of my mother.

I have no answers.  This is hard.  And overwhelming.  And terrifying.  The risks are so high, and the territory so uncharted.  For me, infertility always had an element of misery.  Misery’s not all bad.  It unites the community, it can make the highs feel higher, it can be powerful and reaffirming to let it wash over you.  But, I’m so frightened to be spending these last few weeks of pregnancy in misery.  What does it say about me?  What does it mean about my ability to successfully parent?  What does it foretell about the future if I can’t ever get past these few final road bumps?  I’ve often bought in to the normative language that the ALI and PAIL communities frequently use – the phrases “finding a resolution to infertility” and “living after resolution to infertility.”  I doubt the accuracy of those phrases now.  I doubt that resolution will ever be possible.

On the verge…

… of parenthood?  Of breakdown?  Of both?

I keep trying to figure out why it is that I’m having such a hard time writing about my pregnancy here.  The posts flowed so much easier when I was under the influence of Gonal-F and endlessly waiting for the next laparoscopy, the next cycle, the next miscarriage.  At first I thought it was the inevitable IF guilt.  That deep-seated uneasiness with the fact that I was “moving along” while others were left to do the same things over and over again in the hopes of a different outcome.  Or left to rightfully rail against the very concept of hope itself.  And, yes, that guilt did factor in; but, I think, less than I initially thought.  Ultimately, the primary issue is I don’t know how to live and write equally in the lands of fear and joy – a skill that pregnancy after IF requires.  I’ve known what I felt, what I’ve wanted to say, what I’ve secreted away in my mind these past many months, but I just don’t know how to put it to paper.  Or even if I can put it to paper.  I’ve returned to the realm of the bogeyman, where it feels as if what I think, what I say, what I write will automatically land me in the bad graces of those unseen beings who decide my fate.  The simple act of sporting this belly feels like a daily act of hubris, for which I’m constantly sure I’m in for a rude awakening.

In trying to decide why this all feels so, I’m struck by how similar the IF and PG-after-IF emotions I’m feeling are.  Top of the list at the moment is the seesaw.  With twice weekly non-stress tests at the perinatal center I feel like I’m, once again, living from appointment to appointment.  Every three to four days my psyche is formed by the lines on the NST ribbon and the words of that day’s nurse practitioner or midwife.  One day I’m told how grand I’m doing (“minimal weight gain, stellar 1-hour glucose screen, you’re a rockstar!”), and the next I’m discussing the possibility of a looming c-section (“he’s still breech and, since we’re taking you off of the Lovenox at 36 weeks anyway, we might as well just do a c around that time!”).  A week ago one of my favorite midwifes poo-pooed the early c idea (“you’re still so early, and there are things we can try!”), only to have another preferred practitioner inform me this Monday that I had suddenly developed polyhdramnios (too much amniotic fluid) and we, “desperately need to get to the bottom of this!”  In a few short hours I trek an hour north again for a full afternoon of ultrasounds, NSTs, blood tests, and consults.

I’m exhausted.  Even at its best spending 5-6 hours each week in the car on the way to and from appointments is tiring.  Another 3-4 hours each week in waiting rooms and on exam tables doesn’t help.  Adding in the need to keep up with my full-time job during one of the busiest times of our semester brings me close to the edge.  When you factor in the frequent Braxton Hicks chipping away at my physical and mental stability I’m pretty much done for.

But all those stressors are the easy ones.  The ones that aren’t that hard to write.  The ones I start my therapy sessions with.  The ones that get me pity from most ffergiles and justifiable dagger-eyes from those still waiting to parent or finding peace in the decision not to.

Then there’s the much louder chorus of other concerns for which I have a private concert.  Most days I wake up waiting for the first kick or rumble.  As I pray for it to come, I run through what life post-still birth would look like.  I watch it play out from outside my body; me, sitting in silent grief and despair in our darkened bedroom, the mister bringing me food and handling the obligations of daily life as he cries alone in the shower.  Our families not knowing what to say and, likely, taking it even harder than we do.  After all, we’ve walked these halls before.  The failed cycles, the dashed dreams, the early losses go, if not unfelt by those in our inner circles, at least a lot less felt than for those of us with front row seats.  Soon, these morbid morning thoughts are replaced with anger, nearly all of it directed solely at myself.  What have I been doing for the past five years if not running and screaming from medical office to office demanding something was wrong?  Insisting I was sick?  How could I relentlessly pursue diagnoses in one breath, while doing everything in my power to become pregnant in the other?  I often feel shamefully selfish, and that’s really hard to admit.  For 4.5 years I’ve allowed the words “brave,” “determined,” and “driven” to shelter, protect, and uplift me.  Now I often feel like a fraud and a failure.  If we lose him, I am to blame.  My body did it.  And, most of all, I should have known better.

But, then he kicks.  Or he hiccups.  I catch a glance at the nursery.  Or I sit down to work on my shower thank you’s.  The mister gets misty in the eyes looking through the story books his parents gave us.  Or I find myself subconsciously rubbing my belly.  And it all melts away.  I’m quite easily the happiest I have ever been in my life.  I love my husband beyond words as he talks to our son and dreams of the future.  I miss my mom desperately, but I’ve never felt as connected to her as I do in these on-the-verge-of-mothering moments.  The contractions and kick counting are often overwhelming, but they always remind me that I’m living a moment in time I truly never thought I’d see.  For all that I’ve dreaded showers over the past five years, my own were beautiful and surprisingly cathartic.  And, not the least of all, I feel the healthiest I have in my adult life (no “unknown rheumatalogical condition” back pain or rashes, no endo constipation or crippling cramping, no Hashi’s fatigue or brain fog, no PCOS weight gain or hunger pangs).  Life is really, truly, deeply wonderful.

And, at the same time, life keeps on moving and fear keeps on sneaking in.  In the past week I registered for daycare, set up an appointment with our desired pediatrician, started really putting the nursery together, and continued planning for my maternity leave from work.  Yet, each time I cross one of these items off my to-do list I can’t help but feel like I’m adding them to a “what we’re going to have to undo” list.  I feel like I’m laughing at fate by planning for a child that may or may not arrive safely.  I can’t help but see myself un-registering, appointment cancelling, un-prepping the nursery, spending the summer in my desk chair.

The seesaw keeps rocking at the peak of a mighty mountain and I know I’m destined to fall off.  I’m just not sure which tranquil valley or cursed forest I’m perched above…