A one night stand

Yep, that's how my best friend got pregnant. I had to tell myself over and over again that it was a complete and cruel joke. After the call in which she proceeded to announced that she was pregnant by a guy much younger than her, after a drunken one night stand, I stood there almost speechless. I hoped she was joking, but knowing her, I knew she was telling the truth.

What was I supposed to do? Say congratulations? Good for you? Of course that's exactly what I did, before finishing the call, and crying at my job. Luckily no one saw.

The following months were super difficult between us. I couldn't stand the fact that it was so easy for her. After all, this was her third pregnancy. The other two ended in abortions. I don't pass judgment on that decision. It was a personal matter and that was that. I believe that every woman has the right to choose what's best for them. But when something comes so easy for someone and they see it as matter of fact, there will be no way in hell that they are going to be able to understand the sacrifice that some people have to go trough just to have the opportunity to be standing just where they are.  

Why was life so unfair? Ironic would have been a better word. Yes, I threw a pity party for myself. Yes, I did the whole woe is me dance.

We stopped talking. It was as if we stopped having stuff in common. Just like that, we couldn't relate to each other anymore. A relationship can't be defined by just one thing, but when is something so deep rooted and visceral as the desire to be a mom, and the inability to become one at that, self composure and rationality disappear. We were on completely opposite ends. I was madly chasing what she so thoughtlessly took for granted.

I resented her because she didn't take the time to ask me how I was doing with the treatments or wanted to know more about it. I resented her because she couldn't stop herself from making stupid comments about infertility. She resented me because honestly some days I really, really didn't want to hear all about how awful the nausea was, or how many kicks the baby did. It wasn't pretty at all. Some may call it selfishness... I call it life. It wasn't a proud moment for us, but we recognized it and acted accordingly.

We took a much needed time apart. There was not much else to do. We had each said our parts.

After the baby was born we sort of reconnected. The encounter was weird and we didn't have very much to say to each other apart from oohing and aahing at the baby. Sometime after that our friendship got a reboot. But there was this unspeakable rift already between us. There was no way we could see eye to eye on so many things that defined us as women and individuals. She found that her identity was being a new mom, devoting each waking moment and thought to her daughter. I felt that my identity was based so much on my infertility. I devoted a lot of time on forums, blogs, research and treatments. Two situations a world and a half apart.

I asked myself a lot of times if infertility was ruining my relationship with my best friend. I cried so many times over this. How could two people with experiences so profoundly different from one another ever have a functional relationship? We had become strangers to each other. We had each took a step back and retrieved into our own little worlds. But it felt as if we were slowly coming out from them.

Still the most important question remained.: Could we ever be how we were before?

After my last cycle at the RE, in which I miraculously became pregnant, I had my doubts about telling her. I knew it was early but I was excited, she knew that I was undergoing treatments again, so I told her. Suddenly it was like I had become a member of the imaginary mommy club, just like that. Yes, this club exists. That elusive group that you secretly loathe but would desperately love to be a part of. She started giving me tips on pregnancy and motherhood and I listened intently, open-eyed. So this is how this felt. It was easy. I was hoping like a mad woman for the pregnancy to be OK. Just this chance was all I asked for. For the moment, I was happily on shaky ground.

One week after that, I learned that the pregnancy was not viable. I was going to miscarry. My world shattered and the rift began opening once again. I was metaphorically kicked out of the mommy club. She said all the wrong things at the wrong time. She kept asking me what had happened, how could this be happening... over and over again. Wasn't I in some kind of magical treatment which prevented things like this from happening? She couldn't wrap her mind around the reality of miscarriage, truthfully neither could I, but I knew it was a possibility. 

See... for her, getting pregnant and having a healthy baby were such a given. For her, a pregnancy meant a sure baby nine months after. She had no idea. No idea about the fears of not being able to get pregnant and worrying to death about every little minuscule detail, scared, praying every night for everything to be alright. No idea about how infertility drags you down into the pits of uncertainty and pain. How losing what you wanted more than anything in life can leave you wounded forever. I don't blame her, though. That is how life works most of the time. I was an outsider, looking in. She was the rule... I was the exception.

It has taken some time, but we have remained in contact. We talk about random stuff, laugh, go out to eat occasionally. But there is the ever so present elephant in the room. We don't go into the deep parts of our journeys. We don't bare our souls to each other anymore. There is too much fear. So many buttons to push. I guess that doesn't make us text book best friends anymore.

So the answer is no.... we could never be how we were before. We have an unspoken agreement that our relationship has changed, that we are not as close as before. But strangely enough there is a level of caring and love for each other that will always be there. And that is enough for us... at least for now.

PC- Oh fuck my life-S

That's how PCOS makes me feel every time I think about it.

PCOS affects millions of women across the world but the symptoms of this endocrine disorder manifest differently in each one of us. For me it's the following:

• Super irregular periods. I can go like three or four months without them. No ovulation= no baby
• Some lovely dark hair in my face. I pluck them away at the very sign of their presence.
• Pearl string appearance in ovaries when checked by ultrasound. Pearls... sounds fancy, no?
• Painful sex. Yes, sometimes when I have sex my ovaries feel like they are going to explode. And not with happiness or ecstasy. 
• Infertility. Enough said.
• Miscarriages 
• High cholesterol, although having a fairly healthy diet and lifestyle.
• High thyroid levels. Which are a "no-no when trying to conceive", says my RE.
• Mood swings, depression and anxiety.
• Hypoglycemia. Since forever. 

I think that sums up some of the things I have experienced thus far with PCOS. It has not only affected me in my tying to conceive journey, it has affected my quality of life also.

When I was doing treatments with my RE he did the fasting glucose level test and it came back normal, so he didn't prescribe me Metformin. After doing some research I discovered some articles that stated that Metformin has been proven helpful in non- IR women with PCOS. I was livid that he didn't recommend it. On my next cycle, after some bugging from my part he finally prescribed it. It was the only time in all my cycles that I produced more than two mature follicles. Coincidence? I don't know.

I have been taking Metformin on and off for a while now, because the side effects were pretty nasty. I started again recently, increasing my doses very slowly. So far my energy level is up, I feel more clear minded and relaxed. So we'll see how that goes.

It's pretty frustrating when you are diagnosed with this disorder. If you are even that lucky, because there are some women who are never diagnosed. With my first OB he just brushed it off, gave me contraceptive pills and called it a day. It was when I changed doctors that the word PCOS came into play. Even then, my new OB had no idea what to do, apart from the damn pill.

That just goes to show you how challenging having and managing this disorder can be. I'm in a process of finding a good endocrinologist who has experience in dealing with PCOS so that I can have a better support system. I already know the basics: eat healthy, low carb, exercise, etc. But I feel that there is more that I can do, that there is more to this and not knowing drives me crazy. I can't and won't accept to have a lower quality of life because of this. I want to be able to deal with this in a balanced way, no extremes, no going overboard. Is that too much to ask?

I'll keep searching, fighting, researching and questioning doctors. What else there is to do? Being static is not an option.

On grieving

When does grief starts to fade? Does it ever?

How on earth do you describe grief to someone else? Feelings are almost impossible to describe. How could I express in words the pain...sadness...emptiness? Hmmm, maybe I should explain it like this: It's like someone ripped your heart out and danced over it. Is that a clear enough explanation? Ugh!

My miscarriages are still such a sensitive topic. Sometimes it is addressed by others in a not so subtle way and it can be very shocking. I get mad sometimes because I consider myself to be a pretty strong woman, but when it comes to this stuff I am a complete blubbering, irrational mess.

Grief doesn't have an expiration date. It's not like someone can say to you "get over it", "it's been x amount of time, so your grieving process is over"... "keep on moving". Is this how people see grief? Like something that you HAVE to get over fast? Say it isn't so!

Sometimes, family and close friends who know about A and I's journey, want to be supportive. I know that they want for me to act and be normal again. I don't want to question myself because someone is telling me to get over this. Do you know how many times have I felt shame? Felt wrong about feeling sad, or appearing sad, or ruining someone's party because I don't feel like being Mrs. Sunshine. It's not worth it really. Deep inside I know that it's not wrong. My feelings are as valid as everyone else. 

Grieving is such an individual process. It may take me twice or half the amount of time that it took somebody else to get over the exact same thing, and that's OK.

It would be wonderful if I woke up one day with no memory of what has happened, but alas, such technology doesn't exist yet. And I am not sure that I would want to forget it at all. Yes, there is pain, there is sadness, but it has somehow made me an even stronger person. I appreciate the little, almost imperceptible things even more. Every step is an opportunity and I don't take anything for granted anymore. It's a really sucky way to learn stuff, but this is how life is...

When you go trough a loss so personal and intimate as a miscarriage, few people can really understand. It's very difficult for others to relate to the pain and sadness that a miscarriage can bring, maybe because it is such an intangible loss for them. People can understand better the grieving process when it's a father, a mother or a grown child that passes away, which are horrible and unimaginable losses on their own. But often the impact that miscarriages can have in a woman's mental health is overlooked.

When someone tells me not to worry about it, that I am young and have plenty of time to get pregnant again it's like being punched in the stomach. I know that, but they don't acknowledge that it was a loss for us. Never mind the fact that it has taken us almost three years to even achieve a freaking positive pregnancy test. It's like they are so uncomfortable with the topic, that they just want to brush it off as it never happened.

I have somewhat come to terms with the fact that you can't expect everyone to feel your pain, or to be considered towards your specific situation. There will be ignorant remarks, there will be stupid comments and advice, because somehow people believe that they have that right. But only you can decide what's better, what's normal, what's appropriate.  Some of the things people say may come from a place of caring and worry... but really please- don't tell me how I should process my loss.

We deserve to know that our feelings are valid. We must never feel that our process is shameful or strange or that it's taking too long. We must take the time and necessary steps to heal. Surely it won't be easy, but it's definitely possible. That's what I tell myself anyway. I know that I owe no one an explanation or apology regarding my experience. And I am fine with that on most days.

Maybe I will never feel "normal" again, but really... normal is way overrated...

Yay!

So funny! How many times have you been invited to a kids birthday party just to find out you are the only childless woman there. You kind of suspected that but didn't want to seem like an ungrateful friend, so you went anyway. You look for the alcohol somewhere but all you can find are freaking cupcakes and purple colored soda. Where is my alcohol?!!!! You then proceed to put yourself in a sweets induced coma just to get trough the event.

Meanwhile some smug beyotch who is in her second pregnancy  asks you the dreaded question: When are you going to have a baby? Haven't you and A been together for like a zillion years? Images of slapping her across the head flashes trough your mind while you simultaneously smile and tell her "not yet, we are waiting a little bit longer". Ugh! Seriously! Kids birthday parties are only rivaled in their torture capacity by baby showers. Don't even start me on those...

Anxiety

It's a horrible feeling. You are drowning in your own thoughts. Your fears get the best of you. You start questioning yourself with every breath you take. At the same time your breath becomes shorter and more labored. Yep, you are experiencing a freaking panic attack. Throughout my life I have been acquainted with anxiety. Nothing serious but noticeable enough to keep it in check with the occasional meds. Unfortunately this infertility roller coaster has brought up the worst out of my once controlled anxiety.

Infertility seems to be so much about loss, no? Loss of control, loss of the opportunity to get pregnant each month the "natural way", the loss of experiencing the joy you see in expecting mothers. And in many cases pregnancy loss. Sometimes it's like you are in a constant mourning state.

After experiencing my last miscarriage those feelings of loss were heightened. It became more tangible. I was able to feel that smidge of joy I so many times envied. But it was all taken so forcefully from me. I remember waiting in the doctors office after the suspected ectopic pregnancy was confirmed- everything was so matter of fact. They explained to me the next step which was the dreaded methotrexate shot. Shock was an understatement. Was I doing this? Was I putting an end to this myself? Even tough I knew the pregnancy wasn't viable, in those moments all reason goes out the window. There were two lines in the HPT, I saw them. I had the cravings, the morning sickness- now they were telling me that it had to be terminated for my safety? I was living my worst nightmare. It seemed like a cruel joke.

I became a robot in the days waiting for it to be over. Just going trough the motions was enough to convince the people around me that everything was OK, when in reality I was falling apart inside. Once the bleeding had stopped it was as if the mental barrier I had put up to separate myself from what was happening came crashing down. A spiral of pity, sadness and panic awaited me. What if this was it? What if I wasn't meant to be a mom? What if.... what if? The uncertainty and pain clouded all my rational thoughts. The nights were particularly bad. There, without anything to occupy my mind with I was left alone with my racing thoughts. Even though I had all the support from A and my family, it wasn't enough. Nobody could feel my physical loss, the emptiness. I was alone.

It's been almost four months since then. Everyday is a struggle to keep the memories at bay. It's still hard to think about where I would have been if the pregnancy hadn't ended. My world would consist of buying baby stuff... planning for the birth. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror and imagine how the growing belly would've looked like. It's still hard, but I can manage. The anxiety isn't so bad these days. I sought help, and slowly started picking up the pieces.

We women facing this treacherous road are strong... so strong. Maybe we don't realize it until it's happening, but the strength and will power it's always there. If it weren't for it we wouldn't be able to go trough it all, time and time again, hoping for our silver lining. May that strength hold us all up trough our journeys.

All in a year

Today it dawned on me that next week will be the one year anniversary of the start of our fertility treatments.  I think I started this journey with this preconceived notion that it was going to happen fast. I was going to get pregnant on the first try and be out of that depressing office full of women with sad faces. After all we were with one of the top specialists in our area. What could go wrong? Yet here we are, one year later... no baby yet. To my dismay I became one of those women on the waiting room with that worried expression I so much feared.

Seeing my body fail time and time again has rendered me a sobbing mess on the floor on more than one occasion. It has been hard, so hard. In one years time we have exhausted all of our funds for IUI's attempts (five in all). We have gone trough two miscarriages and countless nervous breakdowns. We've had our hearts broken. But because we have learned nothing we are planing and saving to do it soon all over again. This time we hope to add IVF to the mix for that unexpected fun twist. Here is to the next chapter. Cheers with a lot of wine. You have to do it while you can, right? Because soon it will be cocktails of Follistim and Lupron on the rocks. Yay!