Since sometimes my T.C. tends to come early (damn that luteal phase defect!), I thought I’d throw the Friday Blog Roundup out on Thursday in its honour. Or I’m finally getting to go on a short vacation. One or the other. You decide the excuse.

Calling all males–or females with husbands who can do a write-up for Operation Heads Up… We need a bunch of write-ups for male surgeries/procedures including testicular biopsy, vasography, and varicocelectomy (plus anything else I’m missing). We also need a write-up for IM injections. Any takers? Email me at thetowncriers@gmail.com if you can write it. Click on the link for Operation Heads Up in order to see the format if you’re not familiar with it already.

Which brings us to what others are thinking about this week…

At Miss E’s Musings, the lovely Ellen discusses a conversation that crept up on her without warning–one that I discussed a bit yesterday. She and her husband have decided to set some limits, move onto a different path, and take a break while they collect themselves. And I think the synchronicity that occurs in that conversation and the admittance that they are at the end of their rope show so much strength in their marriage. It’s a hard step, one that brings with it perhaps more mourning than a negative beta. I’m wishing them a lot of clarity and I hope a new path opens for them with bright lights shining down on it. Like those big, honking, parking lot lights so you can see every step of the way.

In a similar vein, over on IVF and ICSI, they’ve decided to continue doing a few more FET cycles while they start work on an adoption from China. She has a beautiful part of her post where she talks about how they wondered if they would be able to bond to a child through adoption. But then she watched the videos of people being brought together with their child for the first time. And she realized how emotional she could get for other couples which is just a fraction of how much love is going to be pouring out of her heart during her own process. She talks about all the steps and how she will become more and more bonded to this child. And I think it’s a great post for anyone who is still in the “consideration zone.”

If you think after that last post that I am little Miss Buzzkill, check out the comment given to GZ by her nurse on GZ’s blog, Gravida Zero. I’m always a bit blown away by comments made within fertility clinics by people who work closely with those going through infertility. Day in, day out, you see people coming through the doors of your clinic in emotional pain. By this point in your career, you would think they would have at least created some pat comments of hope (I know what you’re thinking–I just said yesterday that I didn’t want happy smoke blown up my bum by Ali Domar and now I’m asking all clinic nurses to blow happy smoke up my bum). Beyond the rude thoughts of her nurse, she was “outed” by a family member. Which requires a whole different post on my end–being in or out and with whom. But all in all, a tough week for Ms. GZ. Head over there and wish her luck in the 2ww. I hope she proves that nurse wrong. If she does, I’ll send my ninja nurse practioner to kick her ass.

Lastly, over at Come Undone, the INS form and homestudy application packet is out of her hands and in the loving care of UPS. She has two posts this week about her neighbour reference–choosing which neighbour and then getting to know the neighbour better. Reading her post made me pause and think who I would use as my neighbour reference. I have one person I would consider a friend on the street. And a bunch of people I would call if there was a cricket in the house that needed capturing (I wanted to write “killing” but every cricket is a Mommy cricket’s baby. And it just feels karmically better to say “capture”). I understand why they ask for a neighbour reference, but it’s just a bit of salt in a wound if you think about it. Anyone can naturally conceive a baby or use A.R.T. without anyone vouching for their home life. But once you open the door to adoption, it becomes a system of weighing your worth. And it makes me sad. I want what is best for the kids, but it also makes me sad. And frustrated. And makes me wonder what the neighbours would say. She’s quiet. She has a small garden. She checks her mailbox around 2 p.m. every day.

Have a wonderful end-of-week. We’ll be back mid-weekend for more thoughts on infertility as well as commentary on sunburn.

I’m always curious and want to learn the process when I encounter a blog were the author states that they’re stopping trying-to-conceive. They’ve either embraced living child-free or they’re on-hold for an indefinite period of time while they consider options. It’s always been the thing that scares me the most about trying-to-conceive with infertility. Talk about a ride Disney would never want to touch–the roller coaster with no off button.

Hello. My name is Melissa. I’m 32-years-old. And I’m a trying-to-conceive addict.

Because I’m not sure that I would ever have the courage and strength to say enough is enough. And that scares me. Because it all goes back to the idea of “at what cost.” Yes, a baby is worth the hard work (physically and emotionally) of A.R.T. or adoption, but at what cost? A loss of health? The breakdown of a marriage? Financial ruin?

I am a huge fan of Ali Domar’s book Conquering Infertility. It helped me get through many a negative beta. But I’ve always been bothered by a statement that brings other people so much peace. It’s tagged as her “message of hope”: You will be happy again. Life will become joyful again. And some how, some way, if you want to become a parent, you will.

Maybe it’s really revealing that I’m a half-full (wait…half-empty. No, half-full. Which is the negative one?) person at heart. And my intention is not to ruin this statement for you or drag hope from your clenched fist. If you feel strongly about Domar’s words, stop reading now and I won’t be offended.

The first part certainly brings me hope because I can compare infertility to other times in my life when I have felt pain and I know that life changes. And I like being reminded that I will one day be happy when I am in the midst of great uncertainty and despair. It’s the second part with which I find fault. And I’m not trying to be a buzz-kill, but the words just don’t ring true to me because I’ve read a few blogs lately from people who have given IF their “all” but who are finishing their final post with a sayonara to trying-to-conceive.

And I think these words bother me because at the end of the day, they place blame with the person rather than the uterus, the sperm, the eggs. It’s you in that sentence. Because the inverse is that if you don’t become a parent, it’s because you didn’t try all the some ways and some hows. Which again begs the question: at what cost. Yes, there are certain “some ways” I could try, but the result of those “some ways” may be a child I can’t afford to raise or a loss of overall health. And Domar’s statement completely disregards the possibility of secondary infertility since they’re already a parent and the pain that secondary infertility brings (the lack of respect for secondary IF is a whole different post…).

Which brings me back to the original question–when do you know that it’s time to stop and how do you stop? Do you believe you can reach this space? Most people will luckily never need to actually put this into action, but it serves as an insurance plan. I shouldn’t get on the ride not knowing how to get off.

——————————————–
Addtional thoughts added in the afternoon…

I just wanted to clarify (and become a bigger buzzkill because I don’t think I’ve been enough of a downer today. Seriously, what is it with ovulation and my downer thoughts?)…

The reason I have concern with Domar’s words are that they don’t take into account anything but sheer will. Yes, if I’m willing to sacrifice everything, I can become a parent. Which takes us back to the idea “at what cost.” In our current financial situation, adoption is difficult though not impossible. But for many people, adoption is impossible because financially it’s impossible. So if they can’t conceive naturally, and they’ve spent a lot of money on A.R.T. to no avail…then what? Even foster adoptions cost money. And I’m only worried that someone will take Domar’s words to heart and feel like “I’m not doing enough–I’m not doing everything” and then self-blame. Because we take on enough guilt as is.

Which is not to say that finances don’t change, circumstances in life don’t change, and that what isn’t possible today may be possible years from now. I guess I’m thinking about a small sliver of the IF community–but a sliver of the community nonetheless.

I’m scared for that sliver when I hear Domar’s message of hope.

Because in the end, in MY situation, it is a message of hope because my husband and I are 100% on the same page (with our infertility…at least). Which makes a huge difference. We all know that there are marriages that don’t weather the storm. And I worry about that too when I hear those words. What if you want to adopt and your husband does not? Do you leave the husband in order to make yourself a parent? Do you stay in the marriage and feel like you didn’t explore all the some hows and some ways? These are the difficult questions–and yes, it’s a small sliver, but it’s a sliver nonetheless.

So I can still hold onto those words as a beacon: I will become a parent again (even if I’m not really included in that statement anymore…I wish she would add some parentheses to make it applicable to people going through secondary IF or people who are step-parenting). But there are people who will not reach parenthood for whatever reason. And I don’t want them beating themselves up because there were too many obstacles in their way and a cheerleader in their ear chanting: it will happen! Because I do want to have hope, I do want to have the cheerleaders, and I do need that support. But I also need the cheerleaders to step back with me and admit defeat if defeat happens. Which it hopefully won’t. But I can’t predict everything that life will throw my way. And regardless, even if it works for me, it doesn’t mean that everyone else has the same resources and chances at their fingertips. And my heart aches about that.

August 15th is an anniversary of sorts. It’s the day our little girl grew up and…sniff…lost her needle virginity. Unlike my real virginity (which…um…was lost on my wedding night) I truly had no idea that this was going to happen when it did. I don’t mean that I woke up with an empty Novarel vial in my hand and a look of horror on my face while I exclaimed, “dear G-d! What have I done?” It was more of the I’m-in-the-middle-of-a-meeting-and-I’m-taking-a-call-from-my-RE-who-informs-me-that-I-need-to-come-to-a-self-injection-class-because-I’m-taking-hcG-this-week variety.

I’m pretty squeamish around needles and hate blood draws as well, so infertility and I are not a great combination. And it’s a little trippy how they give you a quick lesson, a few practice needles, and tell you to purchase an orange while sending you on your way with very expensive drugs. Which happens in many other circumstances–self-injections are hardly unique to infertility. But I think I entered the whole thing in such a dream-state because I wasn’t expecting it. It was like a cricket jumping out at me during what I thought was a simple Clomid/Prometrium cycle.

This is what I wrote right after that first injection when I was running around the apartment like I was trailing infertility firecrackers of excitement:

I always said I would never be one of those women who diminshed the enormity of something (because all it does is make other people feel like crap) but I really have to say for the sake of anyone who has a shot coming up, it really wasn’t that bad. I was very nervous beforehand. But I just plowed through the whole thing and I think rushing the process rather than lingering in the anxiety helped a lot. I numbed the area with an ice cube, prepared the needle, numbed the site again because too much time passed , forced DH to sit across from me and pinch some fat too so I didn’t feel all flabby giving myself this shot, and then jabbed it in. I didn’t feel the needle go in because the skin was pretty numb from the ice. I think it was more psychologically troubling to see a needle in your stomach. I also felt a burning sensation for about 10 minutes after I gave the shot. And that area is a little sore right now. But really, for anyone who has a shot in front of them, I can say that it really is not as bad as having blood drawn. I never believed it when people said that but it turned out to be true.

I’m just on a high right now because I really feel like after doing that, I can do anything. It just gave me a lot of confidence in my own ability to overcome my fears.

Confidence building through infertility. But y’all know what I mean. That rush after you do something you never thought you could bring yourself to do. I think more interesting is the injection that took place the next cycle and the false bravado that carried it forward with the readmittance of enormity at the end:

I’m worried that I botched the hcG shot last night. I was hurrying through it, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. I was alone in the bedroom, trying to pretend the whole thing was commonplace and just a little nuisance. I ended up hitting a blood vessel. I now have a bruise on my stomach that is swimming in a sea of irritated skin. It hurts. I wish I had slowed down. The hcG shot really is a big deal.

Now that sounds more like the Mel I know. Because it is huge. Not pain huge, but psychologically huge. I think it goes back to that great write up Carolyn did for the HSG when she talked about the physical pain vs. the psychological implications of the procedure. The HSG may be the first step that pushes you from the “just trying” side into the Land of If. And the tears that come during that appointment may not just be from the actual physical pain (of which there is a lot), but instead the psychological pain of knowing that you are now on a very different road than the one you stepped onto when you first started trying to conceive. That first shot was a turning point for me and I didn’t understand that magnitude until the second injection when I tried to pretend it was nothing and all of my fears caught up with me. It is something. It’s something big.

Which is why someone with diabetes doesn’t have it any easier than someone doing their first self-injection ever. Because it’s not the needle. It’s not the burn of the medication. It’s the reason behind the shot–for diabetes, infertility drugs, other medications. I think we all can admit that there are many other painful things that we don’t fear like we do needles–needles seem to hold a special status on the fear hierarchy. But it isn’t the needles themselves. The pain is instantaneous. It’s the psychological effects–the why you’re holding a needle in the first place–that keep slamming into you long after the brusies are gone.

LFCA Latest Issue: Wednesday, October 29, 2008.

Latest Posts on Bridges: Bridges.

My Status: Considering making popovers. I have never been a fan of the popover, but the idea of a popover with pumpkin butter struck me on the ride home.

I’m just going to say it. I don’t care if I get twenty nasty comments from lactation consultants (mostly because I can delete every one of them from the comments section). I have to say it. I hate National Breastfeeding Week.

And not just for the obvious reasons–who wants to be accosted by story after story about babies on boobs when you can’t even get a baby into your uterus? I hate it for many other reasons that are all tied to infertility. Because…my dears…I can ALWAYS tie it back to infertility.

I have nothing against breastfeeding–just National Breastfeeding Week. In fact, I tried to breastfeed my children. I took the class when I was pregnant and practiced holding a doll to my breast in order to experience the different holds. I purchased a twin breastfeeding pillow. I spoke to countless women about breastfeeding. I was gung-ho, raring to go. Get sucking!

And then the kids were born and the milk never showed. I would pump eight times a day in order to get one ounce. Total. From both breasts. A man could probably produce that. Come on–go send your husband over to the hospital and test this for me. Let them hook him up to a Medela Lactina and see how much comes out. Probably the same amount. At the same time, my children were being fed with a nasogastric tube and the lactation consultant was telling me that we were making a terrible mistake by allowing the hospital to feed my children formula. She thought jabbing a two-pound baby with needles and keeping him on an IV was a better idea. Until my milk came in. Because it was going to show.

Because that’s the message of National Breastfeeding Week. Your milk will show and breastfeeding will happen if you don’t quit. Breast is best (and in case you can’t remember that catchy slogan, the hospital has helpful posters in the maternity ward every few feet). Except…

At what cost?

Truly, is breast best if the child gets breastmilk but the mother is depressed? Or the child gets breastmilk but the mother feels ill and can’t take care of him? Or the child gets breastmilk, but the marriage crumbles because of the stress of trying to push something that isn’t working?

In our case, breast wasn’t best. It wasn’t even an option. Bloodwork finally revealed that I fit into a tiny category of people who had normal prolactin levels prior to A.R.T. but whose pituitary gland shut off during the subsequent pregnancy. I could have pumped forty times a day and I still would have never expressed a useable amount of milk.

The message given by the three lactation consultants we tried–just relax. The same maddening advice we received during fertility treatments was doled out for a problem that was equally unfixable with rest and relaxation. I was told to sleep more, rest more, eat more. With the blame always on me–it was something that I wasn’t doing that was affecting my breastmilk supply. I obviously couldn’t get pregnant because I was a stress-case and I couldn’t breastfeed because I wasn’t sleeping enough. There was room in my OB’s world to say, “something doesn’t seem right here” and send me along for testing. But there was no room in the lactation consultants’ message for “wrong.” There was the sole goal of “don’t give up.”

In the end, the reason I hate National Breastfeeding Week the most is the message slammed into the listener–natural is better. Not, natural is preferred, but synthetic formula is just as good and may be your only option. It isn’t presented like directions to the store–you can take either this route or that route: both will get you to the store, but this one is probably easier. Instead the formula container is looked at as if it were filled with rat poison. I mean, you can feed that to your child. If that’s how you feel about him.

And take that one step further. Natural is better. So are my children, who are far from naturally conceived, not as good as an easy breeder’s children? Are my children inferior to Katie Holmes’ Suri (um…just for the record, let’s check at age two if Suri can add to four. Because my children can–shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhdamn!)?

It all goes back to the twins question I mentioned a few weeks ago, the subtle message that is given when someone asks, “do twins run in your family?” More interesting is the phenomenon in the multiples community. People will add, “mine are natural” into the conversation just to let you know that they didn’t use some backhanded way to get their twins. Their twins are the result of a freak-of-nature, thank you very much, and not some skanky unnatural fertility treatment that involves multiple embryos. As if it makes a difference. Because aren’t we all just twin parents with multiples to love? Does it really matter how they were made?

My mother likens it to my sister’s wedding dress, which was immortalized in a series of famous perfume ads by Elizabeth Hurley. Or…I should say that the original Vera Wang dress was immortalized in the ads. My sister’s dress was a designer knockoff that cost a fraction of the price for essentially the same look. If Elizabeth Hurley was ever out on the town, dressed up in her designer wedding gown and bumped into my sister who was also dressed in her wedding gown (my sister is far prettier than Elizabeth Hurley, so Elizabeth would probably become extremely jealous instantly and bitch-slap her), Elizabeth would probably want to point out how hers was the real deal. Or purses from carts in New York City. It may look like a Prada bag and it may smell like a Prada bag. But people who really have Prada bags want you to know that yours isn’t a Prada bag.

When I presented this idea to someone recently, she countered that in this analogy our children (her twins were also the product of A.R.T.) were really the Prada bag or the Vera Wang gown. Our kids were the ones that cost thousands of dollars vs. co-payment cost kids (which is what I’ve decided to call all naturally created children from now on–CPCBs or co-payment cost babies). Of course I feel like my children are the designer children. They were created with super-sperm and super-eggs that were carefully coaxed and coddled with drugs and love. But I don’t think many parents of CPCBs would agree that I got the designer children. Not just because it would mean that their own children were the inferior ones. Because if you start in a place of natural is better, there isn’t room on the same plateau for A.R.T. babies and CPCBs to stand together.

Which is why I recommend throwing out that whole notion and start from this place: natural is nice. But any method that helps you reach your goal is best.