A little bit of good news

We got the first of our test results back. My FSH and estradiol levels are normal. I don't know what the exact numbers are, but that may be for the best, since I tend to obsess and over-analyze. But the nurse said that they are completely normal. Hurrah!

I was more worried about this test than about any other because this is the one thing they cannot fix. There is no surgery, no drug, no therapy that can make your ovaries work again when they have stopped. I'm 36. It's young for people in the "advanced maternal age" category, but not really young. So getting a normal test result is a massive relief.

We did go out for wine and cheese last night. We got dressed up and had a lovely date at our favorite restaurant. (Even the waiter told me I looked pretty!! And Ross said it was good to see me happy and bubbly and sparkly again!!) We had glass after glass of champagne. Four kinds of cheese - Ross even actually liked the goat cheese and cow's milk cheese!! - and hazlenuts and some kind of jam. And gorgeous salads with pistacchios and arugula and endive. And pork chops in a peach and white wine reduction. And cheesecake with marinated cherries and banana nut bread pudding in a buttered rum sauce with vanilla gelato. So, so good.

Ross gave me a massage when we got home. And I fell right asleep. Even Hobbs was in a good mood last night. He licked my hand - a very rare sign of lapine love!!

God is good. Then why?

I have been struggling with my faith since we lost Rebecca. Actually, I don't think that last statement accurately captures what exactly the struggle is. I do not doubt God's existence. I do not doubt Christ's life and sacrifice. I do not doubt my salvation. I do not doubt God's goodness - at least, not in my mind. My heart is another matter. Because of the disconnect between my reason and the pain I feel, I cannot pray. And I am frustrated and angry at all of the platitudes, well-meaning though they may be, by the faithful. They offer no clarity, no electrifying of my faith. They make things more gray, more muddy, more confusing, more sad. They make God seem less God. Less good.


The pain is so deep that it shoots through every cell of my body and every synapse of my brain and every sacred corner of my soul. When someone tells me, "It was God's will," I want to scream. How could it be God's will that my little girl was torn from my body while I lie there in physical agony? I'm sorry, but that is a wholly inadequate explanation. I have heard things like, "Perhaps you have some unconfessed sin," and (this was to another woman suffering the same thing) "God told me to tell you that you need to forgive someone in your life before you will carry to term." WHAT??!! Or, "God spared you from having to raise a deformed child." How is it sparing to save me from what I would have gladly done and in place give me the worst nightmare I could imagine? Or, said by other people whose scares turn out to be just scares, "God was watching over us." Meaning, God was not watching over me and my husband and our child. Or, "It's all part of God's plan." Well, from my perspective, it's a pretty shitty plan.

My mind insists that God is good, merciful and just. What happened to me and my husband doesn't make sense to me, doesn't square with my sense of goodness, mercy and justice. Not when we see women on the subway punching and slapping their children, showering four letter words down on their innocent and trusting ears. Not when young girls sleep around, get knocked up and kill their children through abortion. Not when prostitutes with AIDS or crack addictions give birth to children who, if they are lucky enough to survive their diseases, will be whelmed in destitution for life. Are we such bad parents that we don't deserve a chance, that Rebecca didn't deserve a chance?

Why, why, why, why, why?


Why, when most couples I talk to get pregnant shortly after a miscarriage, are we still sitting here weeping with empty arms? Why, when I saved myself for marriage, am I subjected to tests for sexually tramsitted diseases that I could never have? Why must I give up either the privacy of my marriage bed or all thought of bearing my husband's child?


I will not accept any of the answers I have heard so far. They smack to me too much of pharisaism. I cannot reconcile a God of justice, mercy and goodness with these answers. And the only prayer I can pray until I receive an answer that makes sense to me is, "Why?"


God is good, I know, or all of existence is senseless Hell. God is my Father because I have asked him to be. I strive to be a good child. If He then refused me and refused help to me, He would not be good. So I will sit and await an answer from my Father.

It's here.

I didn't really get my hopes up this cycle. I kept telling myself that we wouldn't get pregnant this time. I felt confirmed in my decision when just as I was ovulating, Ross had excruciating tooth pain (bad enough to prevent him from sleeping for two nights) and had to go on Vicodin to control the pain. That put a damper on baby-making plans, to say the least. Still, our timing was good enough to give us a chance. But my gut told me that this was not our month. When my temperature dropped yesterday, I told Ross that we were out. I ordered a caffeinated cappucino at breakfast and gulped it down. I planned a cheese and wine tasting for us for Monday night.

But my period never arrived yesterday. My temperature levelled out this morning. 16 days past ovulation, when usually I don't last past 14 days. If my period didn't arrive tomorrow, I would have to consider myself pregnant and go in for a blood test if the home pregnancy tests were still negative. Last month, my hopes would have been sky high. This month, I slammed those steel doors around the hope center of my heart and repeated to myself and Ross, "The tests are negative. My period will come by tomorrow at the latest." And I made myself a pot of strong caffeinated (and expensive) new tea.

Ross left for work. Fifteen minutes later, the dreaded moment arrived.

You'd think with all of this mental and emotional preparation for disappointment that I would be ok. I'm not. I still sat and sobbed for thirty minutes. All I could think was that Rebecca is dead and I should be one month from giving birth to her now. She's gone. And I'm not pregnant. And she's gone.

We've started the tests. I had the diabetes test yesterday, which made me so woozy that I was trembling from head to foot and thought I would faint. I even broke into a sweat. But I'm not sure if it was the glucose water I had to drink or the six vials of blood they had to take for the glucose test and also for the obligatory STD tests. Either way, not fun. I go for my day 2 hormone tests tomorrow morning at 7:30am. I'm going to try to schedule my HSG for next weekend so I don't have to miss work. I've heard it can be a pretty painful procedure. Vicodin is my friend. And then I have to go get twelve more vials drawn for immunological and blood clotting tests.

We've got two more shots at conceiving at home before we give up and start trying to conceive in a hospital with a medical team around us. Good times.

I know there are women who have been at this much longer than I have who are much more upbeat and faith-filled and positive. I'm just not one of them. This whole thing hurts like hell, and I don't feel like pretending that it doesn't. But I promise that one of these days when I'm in a good mood, I'll remember to post.

I'm off to make a pork pot roast and to learn how to tolerate brussel sprouts (for the babymaking effort). And tomorrow night I'm going to drink as much expensive wine and champagne as our get-pregnant-quick-US-economy-meltdown budget will allow.

It's all a tangle, all a tangle

Tentacles. That's what I've been thinking about lately. Tentacles. Those little tentacles that a blastocyst sends into your endometrium to implant to start to receive nourishment. The tentacles of decisions you make over your lifetime. Things that seem to have no or little relationship to other decisions you are making or might one day make. Everything is connected. And for me, everything is a mess.

All of those little tentacles of decisions made long ago have grown through time and entagled themselves around each other into one giant snarl.

Long ago, so far back I can't even remember the actual day, I decided to be a singer. Or maybe I didn't decide it. Maybe it was ordained. I have sung and sung and sung my whole life long. And being an idealist and essentially optimistic, I decided to be a professional singer who wholeheartedly believed that "you can do whatever you set your mind to if you try hard enough". I gleefully abandoned a need for status attached to an impressive job or title or degree. I studied hard and faced the demons of stage-fright and rejection and battled them into submission. I perfected my technique. I learned to take criticism and to learn from it. I became a risk-taker in every conceivable way.

I struggled but I knew that was part of being an artist. I struggled with long periods of time away from my family, with having no financial security, with my own sense of self-worth, with all kinds of religious and moral issues, with overwhelming educational debt, with juggling an insane and ridiculous schedule, with working at a series of day jobs that were to me both boring and sometimes demeaning.

I married. I married late. Not because I was so focused on my career. All through my twenties and early thirties, I kept looking for the man who would be my husband. I was ready to renounce career for marriage if necessary. I fought all of my own emotional insecurities to make a fertile soul for a thriving marriage to grow. And then I met him. And he's not a Christian. Four more years of soul-searching and questioning and nights of sleepless anxiety and three or four break-ups on religious grounds and getting back together and one day changing my mind about everything. And he proposed and I said yes and then we both said yes at the altar.

Oh, did I mention that he's an actor and a singer? I love him. There is no better man for me. And I love his voice. And I love his acting. I married a man whose work makes me swoon. And makes me better at what I do. But did I mention that this is his job? That's right - the same one I have. With all of the same problems. And all of the same NO MONEY.

Ok, I can handle this, right? I've handled lots of other things and I'm still standing up. We can even handle having a baby. Because we have friends who have children. Two parents who are both performers in their late 30s who have children. We're smart. If they can make it work, so can we.

So we start trying. Two months into trying - am I pregnant? I might have been, oh so very briefly. My doctor thinks so. My acupuncturist thinks so. But we'll never really know. Two months after that - BINGO! Very, very pregnant. Obviously pregnant. With Rebecca. Who is now gone. And so we try again. And again, and again, and again. This is not happening. I'm off to the RE.

I've started reading books on infertility and treatment. Apparently having excruciatingly painful periods for 20 years is not normal! Who'd have thunk! It's indicative of endometriosis. Also, taking 18 Advil a day for two days every month for the pain is not so smart. It can cause (drum roll, please!) KIDNEY DISEASE! For which I am being tested. So now we are facing extensive testing, possible surgery, possible IVF, God only knows what all, and we may still not get pregnant. I'm 36 and the clock is ticking.

I know, I'm getting way ahead of myself, but this is my blog and I'm allowed to freak out in it, so deal!

So my little anxiety-ridden brain starts thinking about adoption. I like to know all the options and to be educated on all the pros and cons way before I'm forced into making a decision. I've always been interested in adoption. My grandmother is adopted, as well as my great uncle, my uncle and one of my cousins. I've thought about adopting even if we have lots of our own biological children. Of course, I still want to be pregnant, deliver and raise our own child who shares our genetic material. But that doesn't exclude adoption as far as I'm concerned.

But now all of a sudden adoption might be the only way we have children. And now it's not something we can do if we feel like or not if we don't. It's urgent, it's important, it's STRESSING ME THE HELL OUT. Why? Because apparently there are age limits. Are you freaking kidding me??!!! My adoption clock is ticking, too???!! Apparently, most adoption agencies won't let you adopt above age 40. Ok, so that's four years, but there's also usually a two year wait. Which gives us two years to apply. But we want more than one child. And you have to be married for three years first, which is still a year and a half away. And then there's the cost. It can cost around $10,000 per child to adopt. And we still want to pursue having a biological child, so we still have those costs to think about. And then there's the whole "suitability" factor. My day jobs change almost yearly. My husband bartends when he's not working an acting gig. The very nature of our career choices looks highly unstable to the traditional workforce. To us, it's just a different way to live, no better and no worse, just different. We pay our bills, we are paying off our debt, we have health insurance, we have food and a home in which to live. But how will we look to adoption agencies?

I'm so afraid to get my hopes up. I'm not letting myself think that there is any chance I can get pregnant naturally because the devestation of the arrival of my period is getting too difficult for me to take. I'm afraid of what the tests at the RE will reveal. I'm afraid that we will be rejected by adoption agencies. I am afraid we will be childless. Forever.

Tentacles. All of those decisions for all of those years..... Take Advil for the pain so I can function. Be a professional singer because that is my calling instead of law school so I can look impressive and make money. Wait until I meet the right guy to marry instead of marrying in my twenties when having a baby would have been much easier. Marry the working actor who loves me and treats me with respect and who I love rather than any one of the rich guys I dated from time to time, who could have just written a check for all of this without blinking. Tentacles. Tangles of tentacles that might leave us childless forever.

And none of them are burrowing into any endometrium.

ETA: I do not regret any of the decisions that I have made. I firmly believe that performing, and particularly singing, is my vocation. I am very happy I married the man I married. While I wish that we had met at a younger age or had married sooner after we met, I know that it was not possible. And as much as I blame our delay on my hang-ups, the truth of the matter was that he was not ready to get married at first, either. We did the best we could to create the best kind of life for both of us to flourish. Why the baby piece of the puzzle seems elusive and difficult, I do not know. Why the consequences of the right decisions are so harshly cruel, I do not know. I may never know. Or maybe everything will be okay after all.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

I cannot go to Laurelyn's shower. I can't be happy and I don't want to ruin everyone's time. I can't imagine sitting there, watching her, thinking about Rebecca and not bursting into tears. I simply cannot do it.

I'm not pregnant again. Cycle 7 begins. Next stop is the RE two weeks from today. We'll see what the test results say.