I had an information session with my baby making doctor yesterday.  The big question - what is Plan B if Plan A doesn’t work? It was rough. As I sat in the office, I felt sick to my stomach. These science-meets-real-life moments are so complex.  Numbers, data, and results collide with emotions and humanness.  My other half left 15 minutes in because the stress was literally consuming him.  He started to sweat and fidget and bolted for the door. I sat and listened and cried.  This month (February 2019) marks one year since we enlisted help from the professionals. We want to grow our family. We want another baby.

Before that, one year of trying on our own.  

Two Years.  

My “plan” has had stops and starts but the reality is I am not nursing a newborn and I am not pregnant.  

Neither of which I expected at this point.  Both of which terrify me.    

I need a place to put all of this stuff. My Stuff. It feels so big, so Capital Letter. I think the only way out of it is through it. I’ve got to write the words. Share the words. Grow and learn from my story, my experience. I think that’s all every one of us is trying to do.  

It’s scary and intimidating and exposing. But I feel called to write it down so I don’t miss the gift of it (even though it’s almost impossible for me to see it right now). So the hard stuff can help me grow and evolve and know myself. Producing a tangible body of words - a physical place to put my story - for me, it’s like lying on a therapists couch or venting with my best, most trusted friend. It’s real and healing and cathartic. Every word stitches me back together. Every sentence creates a little more breathing room on the inside.  

I have tried other ways - writing privately in a journal and talk-therapy with my inner circle (my other half, mom, sister, best friends).  It has worked sort of but not really. Not enough. If you want a different result, do different. So this is me doing different.   And my journey here, writing these words, was only possible because of other women who did it first. Who are doing it right now. Who pulled the curtain on the polished-up, filtered lives we are all bombarded with on the daily and talked honestly about real stuff happening in their real lives. Hard stuff. In this season of my life, baby making stuff.   

The it’s not polite to talk about stuff. They are brave and endlessly generous with their words.  They have been my healers.  

I read their words and I feel better.  I do not know where this journey of truth telling + sharing + connecting will take me but it is calling to me. And I need it.  I feel moved to pay it forward and add my voice to this community. To share moments of my life so one other person will know they are not alone.  Even if that person is me. Writing just to remember I am not alone.  

I’ll let the words come.  I’ll share my experiences and my humanness. I’ll jump and build my net on the way down. 

I’m finally learning that it’s not for me to figure out anyway.  Forces much larger and greater are waiting, asking for me to release control and surrender.  These words are my surrender. 

I’m going to start with a rewind to a few years ago. This photo was taken in our front yard. It was the beginning of a new year. I was certain I would be pregnant within months and 2017 would mark the year we became Four.

January 2017: Year One

Apps like Period Tracker, Taking Charge of Your Fertility and Ovia had their own folder on my iPhone. I officially had a file for Baby Making.  I recruited technology to help me keep track of every fertility sign that says have-sex-now-to-make-a-baby. Morning temperature taking, CM evaluating (if you know, you know) and peeing on lots and lots and lots of sticks.  Fertility Monitors. Ovulation Predictor Kits. A kindle maxed out with baby making books. Boatloads of sex.  

Mostly fun, happy, loving, frequent sex.   

Sometimes tired, cranky, hopeless sex.  I always felt terrible if it was the later.  Like a shitty other half.  

Acupuncture, moxa, baby making teas & Traditional Chinese Medicine gurus, fertility food protocols, best-supplements-to-take while TTC.  I consumed every article and resource that said This Will Help You Get Pregnant.

Wine became a (singular) glass every week or so and caffeine was rationed. And then both eliminated.  

Two week waits, pregnancy tests, periods.  The emotional toll was steep.  

Lots of hope followed by lots of despair.   

We started trying for Baby #2 when our daughter was 1.5 years old. I’m jumping into my story right in the sticky part.  There has been so much that came before this season of my life. But this is my Now. Lots of friends were Round 2 (or 3 or 4) pregnant and babies seemed to be popping out of every woman in my life.  Even my barista at Starbucks was f*ing pregnant. 

And then so was I.

After almost an entire year on the baby making roller coaster, just like that, one day it all changed.

It was a beautiful afternoon, our daughter was outside sidewalk chalking with dad.  And I was late. Like late, late. But my cycle had a mind of its own so it was not to be trusted. I had no other symptoms. I avoided taking a pregnancy test because I did not think I could handle the actual knowing, one way or the other.  As long as I willed myself not to pee on that stick I could hope and pray and make myself pregnant. A huge part of me wanted to stay steeped in ignorance. But I couldn’t help myself. I found myself alone with a few minutes to spare - like seeing a unicorn for a momma.   I ran upstairs, grabbed the test, peed on it, put the cap back on, laid it flat, ran back out of the bathroom. It was a blur. And for the 5 minutes I waited, I was terrified and sick to my stomach. A place I had been countless times over the past year. 

PREGNANT. 

I took one of those pregnant/not pregnant tests - where the actual word is spelled out for you - no chance of misinterpreting some vague lines.  Alone in my bathroom I fell to my knees and put my hands in prayer right on top of the toilet and cried and prayed all the gratitude that my heart had.  That afternoon, sitting in our living room alone together I shared the news with Him.  

It was all exactly how it was supposed to be.  

We had just closed on the purchase of a property where we were going to build our new home.  The home where we would continue to grow and raise our family.   

It was all exactly how it was supposed to be.  

That summer, with the man I loved by my side, I would be holding a newborn and a 3 year old in my arms.  

A few days later, my mom came over. We were all going to school to watch our daughter’s holiday sing. I was getting showered and dressed.  And, again, I couldn’t help myself. I took another test. I was in shock for a few days after (finally) getting a Pregnant after 11 months of Not Pregnant.  I needed more data - I needed more sticks to tell me YES - you can tell your mom + sister + you can be happy. This is real. 

While watching my daughter sing Rudolph the red nosed reindeer I remember the perfect joy I felt - at having the gift of Her and the gift of another on the way. This enormously generous gift of my life.  I told my mom. I told my sister. And I allowed myself to be happy and pregnant. We went full throttle though the Christmas season and New Year’s Eve. And then settled in to 2018 feeling complete and calm and ready.  

And then things changed. 

One morning in late January 2018 I started spotting.  I told myself I wasn’t worried, this is normal. It didn’t happen with my first pregnancy but every pregnancy is different.  Do. Not. Worry. And yet, I immediately called my midwife, the incredible woman who guided me through my first pregnancy and delivered my daughter. And as soon as I heard her voice I started crying.  I was not being honest with myself. I was out-of-my-mind, couldn’t catch my breath, scared. She calmed me down, said to see how the day goes, take it easy both physically and emotionally. Riiiiight. I was anxious and panicked. When I look back on this moment, I know that I knew. I knew but absolutely could not bring myself to know. I couldn’t. It was too painful. That afternoon, as I was driving to school pick-up, I felt a gush between my legs.  Blood. Lots of it. Tears streamed down my face as I pulled into school, the teacher secured my daughter in her carseat and we drove away with waves and (very forced and fake) smiles. Moments later we are home. In the bathroom while my daughter was a few feet away watching Paw Patrol, I was no longer pregnant.

Personal.  

Private.  

As if your life depended upon it do not talk about this stuff. You will be cast out. Exposed and shamed.

I didn’t know women in my real life who were living this experience.  I had not had one conversation with anyone about miscarriages or having to try to get pregnant.  I felt alone and different.  Like something was broken. Like I was broken.  So it all stayed inside.   

I stuffed it way down deep and put it in a box plastered with warning labels. 

*Use extreme caution upon opening this box* 

I did not have time to deal with the bigness of it all. I was scared.

I Mom. I Wife.  I cook dinner + do laundry + toddler routines. I write as if my life depended on it.  

I live on the surface.  Except when I write. When I write all the things come pouring out of me. And I feel better.

There is no crying for days or what’s next conversations. No therapy or yoga or mourning.  I was hollowed out. I just sort of went blank.  

Then one night my daughter decided to eat her strawberry toothpaste rather than brushing with it. I lost it.  Misguided anger and sadness exploded out of me like a volcano. I was sad about losing our baby. I was confused and scared that I might not ever have another one. But I didn’t give myself space or time to feel my way through it.  I boxed it up and pretended like it would just magically disappear if I ignored it long enough. It did the opposite. It waited for me and multiplied. It oozed into all the crevices of my life.  It demanded my attention and so I gave it as best I could. Which didn't’t feel like much or enough, but I tried. I kept going.

January 2018:  Year Two

Three weeks after my miscarriage I was sitting in the sterile, LED lit office of a fertility specialist.  It took 3 weeks to get in and I saw the first doctor in the practice that had availability. I knew I needed help to continue on this journey. I felt relief and hope at building a team that would guide and support me along the way.  I could not face another month, let alone year of all the feels in secret.   I just wanted to be told what to do.  I wanted to hand over the reigns and be a passenger.  I was so tired of having to be the one in command of the baby making ship.  It had wrung me out and washed me up.

So here I was. Doing the thing I had resisted for a year. It was almost like I was watching someone else sit in that doctor’s office. Like this wasn’t my reality. Project Baby started with lots of intel collecting - information, data, protocols.  A plan takes shape around a singular shining goal.  Healthy Pregnancy.  Healthy Baby. Healthy Momma. 

The doctor’s office becomes home away from home.  A lot of things are entering my body - drugs, needles, probes.  This is a big step for an I don’t even take Advil or have a GP person like me.    

It takes a lot of time and energy and money.  The fact that I have all these things is not lost on me.  Not even a little bit. And I have so much more, too. I have Love and Support and a Soft Place to land.  I have a family that is my rock. 

Lots of bloodwork. Scans of all my parts. An invasive HSG test. Evaluating follicles and eggs. Semen and sperm.  My body was a laboratory, every inch was under diagnostic scrutiny.      

During all the intel collecting my fertility doctor suggested I get a mammogram.  I had never had one before, I was 37, but had a significant family history of breast cancer (both my maternal grandmother and my mother).  I went to the oncology wing in the same hospital where our daughter was born. They smashed and squished and flattened my boobs every which way. A few days later they called and said they needed to rescan with a 3D machine.  The next call was to say that they found a mass in my left breast and needed to schedule a biopsy immediately. It was early March and with one test everything shifted from plan Baby Making to plan let’s make sure you don’t have cancer first.

All I could think was it’s not supposed to be this way.

All plans for baby came to a screeching halt until my health was in the clear. This just infuriated me. How could my body be so inconvenient right now? And to say that I felt my clock ticking was an understatement. The world had already pegged me as old/high risk and they just don’t let you forget it. This really stings me and is such a huge disservice to women. I remember screaming into a pillow in our living room so I wouldn’t terrify my daughter. I drove around the block crying. I had so many feels and no real outlets to actual feel them. I could not be having a health crisis right now. My mom went with me the morning I had my biopsy.  It was a Thursday. They said they would work as quickly as possible to get me the results over the weekend. My 38th Birthday was on Sunday and it was also the day I found out the mass was clear. Normal, healthy boobs. 

I entered year 38 with a thankful and hopeful heart.  

But still a little emptiness.    

The next 4 months were cycles of Clomid, scans, follicle counts, hormone trigger shots, sex and impossible 2 week waits.  Drugs and monitoring and perfectly timed sex.  

This strategy gave us one chemical pregnancy (one of my most detested word in the land of TTC, second only to infertility) that ended before it had a chance to start. 

And then summer arrived. We spend much of it in Rhode Island.  We unplug and disconnect from our normal routine. Soak in friendships and summer nights and strawberry picking and farmers markets.  

It wasn’t physically possibly to continue fertility treatments while we were 1,500 thousand miles away for 2 months. So we took a break. I took another round of Clomid “unmonitored” while we were away. I still had some leftover and I figured why not? I had all the yucky symptoms of taking the medication (bloating, moodiness, night sweats) and got my period 2 weeks later. F*ck.   

I still monitored and charted and did all the things. And lots of sex. This is where the rubber met the road for me.  That summer was tough. I felt dark and moody. Angry and sad. Lonely. I isolated myself because I had a hair thin emotional trigger and I couldn’t risk a full blown public meltdown.  The grand finale to the summer was my sister’s (my very best friend in all the land) beautiful and oh-so-meaningful wedding to a man we all love. After a week of extravaganza in Ohio where she was married (I got my period the day before her I do’s) we returned home in mid August. 

I did not have a baby growing inside me and I felt myself cracking.

My 3 year old daughter started school in September, and I knew something had to change. I have an amazing life. Sometimes I feel this means that I’m not allowed to label anything I go through difficult, hard, challenging, shitty. I’m not allowed to be sad, have a bad day, struggle. I’m not sure where this comes from, but it’s something I work at. I was mad at myself for this moody darkness and even more upset that I couldn’t shake it.   

I still felt a hole.  

I needed to change how I was responding to this season of my life. I was putting out fear, negativity, stress, sadness, anger and failure.  A self-help junkie, I know that what you put out is what comes back to you. I was putting out crap and I was getting crap back. I was tired of feeling shitty. I had to do different if I wanted different

The first thing I did was find a doctor that was a better match for me.  I didn’t feel it with my first doctor. The relationship felt distant, sterile, medical - not human, just scientific.  Not good baby making juju. I asked a close friend about the doctor she used when trying to get pregnant with her second. One of the only people I ever even had a fertility conversation with. If anyone else in my sphere had experienced difficulties getting or staying pregnant I never heard a word. It was an extremely isolating time in my life. She had a full calendar (I called in September) so it felt like forever until my first appointment. I sat down with her in December 2018. 

She hugged me.  She was warm and soft and wicked smart.  She gave me her personal cell phone number.  She was a Baby Making Boss and I immediately felt layers of stress and overwhelm melt off of me as I handed her the wheel.  We already had data to work with - test results and cycle summaries from my previous treatment protocols. Clomid, trigger shots and timed sex had not worked for us.  By sticking with it for 3 cycles we exhausted this option and I was ready to move on. I got my period on New Year’s Eve 2018. It crushed me. CD1 (cycle day) was January 1, 2019.  I took 150mg of Clomid CD 3-7 and went in for every other day ultrasounds and bloodwork.  Follicles were growing, uterine lining looked good (with the help of estrogen suppositories) and I had 2 mature follicles that were measuring 17 & 18mm.  It was time to trigger with an HCG injection. I mixed up the concoction and gently plunged it into my butt/hip area (even though technically I wasn't supposed to do it myself).  I felt the muscle grab (good sign) and that was that. Another milestone in the marathon of creation. 

36 hours later I was in the stirrups with a bladder so uncomfortably full I thought this cannot be right. But of course it was.  Having a full bladder helps the nurse guide the thin catheter in easier, reaching your uterus to transfer the squeaky clean semen so it is ready and waiting for your egg. Our first IUI.  The numbers are dismal, 10-20 percent chance of success. But there is a chance. I closed my eyes and smiled. I was happy. I was excited, grateful for doctors and modern medicine, and full of hope.  Mostly I was happy to have a break from what had become the Great Work of trying to get (and stay) pregnant. The procedure took only moments and when the 5 minute timer went off I moved as slowly as possible as I got dressed.  One: because it felt strange to stand up and work against gravity (heavens anything leaked out after all the effort to get it in), Two: because I was going to pee my pants if I made any sudden movements.  

And then the 2 week wait began.  My blood test was scheduled for Monday, January 28, 2018.  I suffered for the 12 days that followed.  I’m not sure why I knew all the things to do to get through a 2WW without losing my mind, but I didn’t actually do any of them.  I struggled. Those 12 days were a blur.  They advised, do not take an at-home-pregnancy test.  The results are not reliable because of the HCG trigger shot that could still be in your system and give a false positive.  

So of course I took a test.  It was negative. I thought it was just too early for an at-home test to register yet, so I completely dismissed the results (denial: first stage of grief).  My boobs were very tender, which was an early sign I had when I was pregnant with Sienna, my first. I would know tomorrow. 

The day arrived.   I went to my doctor’s office first thing in the morning for blood work so I could get same day results.   

My daughter was home from school for the day because she had a mild fever the night before.  When I returned, we read lots of books, cuddled, watched a movie. I stayed occupied. It was really cold out, unusually so for a Florida winter.  I was chopping bell peppers and onions for taco night when the doctor’s office called. It was the nurse robotically informing me of the results, blood test negative. I’m not pregnant.

I put the phone down, washed my hands and kept chopping.  

There was still dinner to be made and a daughter to love, cuddle and comfort through the bath-dinner-bedtime routine.

A few hours later my low back started to ache and I got my period.   

The day had taken it out of me.  I crawled into bed and fell asleep with tears streaming down my face.